


Tabris Character Study Alphabet

by a_felidae



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alphabet Meme, Character Development, Character Study, City Elf (Dragon Age) Origin, City Elf Culture and Customs, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 50,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_felidae/pseuds/a_felidae
Summary: Nirai Tabris from A to Z.Covers events from her time as a Grey Warden and before - from her own perspective and that of others.Archive warnings apply for some chapters.Please use the overview I posted for reference.
Relationships: Soris & Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris
Comments: 10
Kudos: 3





	1. Overview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> overview for the different chapters that helps you look for fic based on rating or characters  
> I was lucky enough to score a great beta reader recently, so, thanks to AblatedCrayon I am going over the content already posted and will update the revised chapters in time.

This started out as writing some backstory for my f!Tabris, Nirai, before I get to writing a full novelization of my playthrough.

I recently decided to keep the novelization purely from the viewpoint of my Tabris. Throwing in a different viewpoint only here and there would be side-lining these characters, so any scenes I wrote with the novelization in mind, but from a different viewpoint, will probably go here in the alphabet section.

Some stories contain spoilers for gameplay.  
I figure most readers here have played the games already and will not be bothered, but to be safe I point out which stories are mere background, and which go beyond that.

There will be several chapters for some of the letters, and I will number these for easier reference, for example 1/3, 2/3 etc.

For connected fanfics from different viewpoints, I add a letter behind the number, for example 1a/2, 1b/2. It is one story (1/2) but split into chapters by viewpoint.

It is usually one character’s viewpoint for each story, one big exception is the letter W, that covers one topic from several viewpoints, numbered 1a-1g so far.

I put a short description for the stories corresponding to each letter in the alphabet here, because the tags I will add on with each chapter apply for the whole collection, and people might want more specific information for the individual chapters so they can pick what they (do not) want to read.

This information will include:  
length, rating, warnings, viewpoint, characters (main & mentioned), and timeframe (for example: pre-Origin, pre-Recruitment, or in-game).  
I hope this will help to avoid spoilers and/or content you do not wish to read about.

I will not reveal the word(s) I picked for each letter here, but in the notes at the end of each chapter, to avoid spoiling certain stories.

I find it hard to rate certain scenes, and tend to err on the side of caution. If you disagree with my rating for a chapter, please feel free to let me know in the comments.

All the letters of the alphabet are covered now. There might be updates in the future, since I already have several letters covered more than once.

I also added in my Tabris Family Tree in chapter 2, so you can look up NPCs that were not named in or not part of canon. Chapter 3 (A 1/2) contains a short summary of the family history.

* * *

**A 1/2:**  
Length: ca. 1500 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mentions of death, abortion and sexual assault)  
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con (not shown, but mentioned)  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: Tabris Ancestors  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**A 2/2:**  
Length: ca. 2650 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (slight gore)  
Warnings: I do not think it warrants the “Graphic Depictions Of Violence” warning, but better safe than sorry  
Viewpoint: Soris  
Characters: main: Soris, f!Tabris; mentioned: Duncan, Vaughan, Elva, Nola, Sharai  
Timeframe: mostly pre-Origin, framed by pre-Recruitment

* * *

**B 1/2:**  
Length: ca. 300 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (violence mentioned)  
Warnings: No Archive Warning Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: F!Tabris, Sharai; mentioned: Taeodor’s brother  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**B 2/2:**  
Length: ca. 2500 words  
Rating: Mature (no sex scenes, but some smutty thoughts)  
Warnings: No Archive Warning Apply  
Viewpoint: Zevran  
Characters: main: Zevran, F!Tabris; mentioned: Alistair, Sten  
Timeframe: in-game, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**C 1/2:**  
Length: ca. 1300 words  
Rating: Mature (some gore)  
Warnings: I don’t think “Graphic Depictions Of Violence” applies in case of preparing a dead animal for cooking. It is a bloody business, but I would not call it violent since the animal in question is already dead.  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Alistiar; (mentioned: Morrigan)  
Timeframe: in-game, around Lothering, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**C 2/2:**  
Length: ca. 6900 words  
Rating: Mature (mention of sexual assault, partial nudity, some physical intimacy, but no sex)  
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con (only alluded, but better safe than sorry)  
Viewpoint: Zevran  
Characters: main: Zevran, f!Tabris; (mentioned: Vaughan)  
Timeframe: in-game, contains spoilers for Zevran’s personal arc up until the Landsmeet

* * *

**D:**  
Length: ca. 550 words  
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences   
Warnings: Major Character Death  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Dog; mentioned: Jowan  
Timeframe: in game, after “Nature of the Beast”, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**E 1/2:**  
Length: ca. 3100 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (slight gore)  
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence (just to be safe)  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Zevran; mentioned: Tabris family, Alarith, Morrigan, Wynne, Vaughan   
Timeframe: pre-Origins, in-game during “Nature of the Beast”, major plot point & decision mentioned

* * *

**E 2/2:**  
Length: ca. 500 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of death)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Zevran; mentioned: Jowan, Avernus  
Timeframe: in-game, spoilers for Zevran romance plot

* * *

**F:**  
Length: ca. 1550 words  
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences (some allusions to pursuing a romantic/physical relationship)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Alistair  
Characters: main: Alistair, Leliana, f!Tabris; mentioned: Zevran  
Timeframe: in-game, spoiler for Alistair romance, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**G:**  
Length: ca. 1500 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audience (mention of violence & death)  
Warnings: “Graphic depictions of Violence” might apply for considering battle tactics?  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; mentioned: Alistair, Bella, Lloyd, Kaitlyn, Bevin, (Loghain, Valendrian)  
Timeframe: in-game, first visit to Redcliffe, spoilers for related quests

* * *

**H:**  
Length: ca. 300 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; mentioned: Tabris family  
Timeframe: in-game, post Ostagar. Alludes to City Elf Origin and Grey Warden lore.

* * *

**I:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; mentioned: Nola, Slim Couldry  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**J:**

Length: 100 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Alistair; mentioned: Jowan, Duncan, Arl Eamon  
Timeframe: in-game, during visit to Redcliffe. Spoilers for related quests

* * *

**K:**  
Length: ca. 1800 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (some cussing)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Alistair; mentioned: Arl Eamon  
Timeframe: in-game, mention of the Fade and personal information regarding Alistair

* * *

**L 1/3:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Alistair  
Characters: main: Alistair, f!Tabris  
Timeframe: in-game, after “Broken Circle”, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**L 2/3:**  
Length: ca. 200 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Alistair  
Characters: main: Alistair, f!Tabris, Dog; mentioned: Morrigan  
Timeframe: in-game, post Lothering, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**L 3/3:**  
Length: ca. 1100 words  
Rating: Mature (mention of rape and side character death)  
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; mentioned: Sten, Alistair, Wynne, various (from City Elf Origin and Main Quests)  
Timeframe: in-game, during “The Urn of Sacred Ashes”; other major plot points alluded to, but plot decisions mentioned only indirectly

* * *

**M 1a/2:**  
Length: ca. 500 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (some physical & emotional abuse)  
Warnings: do two slaps warrant “Graphic Depictions Of Violence”?   
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; Soris; mentioned: Taeodor (not by name), Taeodor’s older brother  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**M 1b/2:**

Length: ca. 700 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of physical abuse)  
Warnings: do two slaps warrant “Graphic Depictions Of Violence”?   
Viewpoint: Soris  
Characters: main: Soris, f!Tabris; mentioned: Adaia, Taeodor, Taeodor’s older brother  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**M 2/2:**

Length: ca. 2100 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Alistair  
Characters: main: Alistair, f!Tabris; mentioned: Arl Eamon, Isolde, Shale (only indirect)  
Timeframe: pre-Origins

* * *

**N:**  
Length: ca. 1350 words  
Rating: Explicit (violence)  
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris mentioned: Alistair, Wynne, Zevran, Caladrius, Cyrion  
Timeframe: in-game, spoilers for “Unrest in the Alienage"

* * *

**O:**  
Length: ca. 800 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of death)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Alistair; mentioned: Jowan  
Timeframe: in-game, containing information relating to the quest “Soldier’s peak”

* * *

**P:**  
Length: ca. 3750 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of physical punishment and death)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Adaia; mentioned: several relatives (Tabris, Satarel, Gethel & Mikhar family)  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**Q:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; mentioned: Soris, Alarith, Elva, Nola  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**R 1/3:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Alistair  
Characters: main: Alistair, f!Tabris  
Timeframe: in-game, around Lothering

* * *

**R 2/2:**  
Length: 1500 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Soris  
Characters: main: Soris, f!Tabris  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**R 3/3:**  
Length: 2300 words  
Rating: Explicit  
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Depictions of Violence  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Vaughan; mentioned: Shianni, Soris, Sharai, Nelaros  
Timeframe: pre-Recruitment, spoiles for City Elf Origin

* * *

**S:**  
Length: ca. 800 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Soris  
Characters: main: Soris, f!Tabris  
Timeframe: pre-Origins

* * *

**T 1/2:**  
Length: ca. 650 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (some cussing)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Oghren, Zevran; mentioned: Alistair, Branka  
Timeframe: in-game, during “A Paragon of Her Kind”, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**T 2/2:**  
Length: ca. 500 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of death and rape)  
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con (not shown, only alluded to)  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Wynne, Alistair; mentioned: Sharai, Tabris family  
Timeframe: in-game, during the side quest “Something wicked”, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**U:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mentions of killing)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris; mentioned: Riordan, Adaia, Urthemiel  
Timeframe: in-game, final battle

* * *

**V:**  
Length: ca. 350 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (emotional abuse, hints at sexual predator)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Vaughan  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**W 1a:**  
Length: ca. 350 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of death)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Valendrian  
Characters: main: Valendrian, Adaia; mentioned: Soris, Cyrion  
Timeframe: pre-Origin

* * *

**W 1b:**  
Length: ca. 700 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Adaia  
Characters: main: Adaia, f!Tabris; mentioned: Soris, Valendrian, Sharai, Tabris Ancestors  
Timeframe: pre-Origins

* * *

**W 1c:**  
Length: ca. 1500  
Rating: Explicit (physical and emotional abuse, mention of sexual assault)  
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence; Rape/Non-Con  
Viewpoint: Sharai  
Characters: main: Sharai; mentioned: f!Tabris, Soris, Shianni, Nola, Nessa, Nelaros, Valora, Vaughan  
Timeframe: pre-Origin & pre-Recruitment, Spoilers for City Elf Origin

* * *

**W 1d:**  
Length: ca. 1800 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (Mention of Violence/Death)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Elva  
Characters: main: Elva; mentioned: Adaia, f!Tabris, Sharai, m!Surana, Soris, Nelaros, Nola, Vaughan  
Timeframe: pre-Origin & pre-Recruitment, Spoilers for City Elf Origin

* * *

**W 1e:**  
Length: ca. 700 words  
Rating: General Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Soris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Soris; mentioned: Nelaros, Shianni, Sharai, Nola, Nessa  
Timeframe: pre-Origin & pre-Recruitment; Spoilers for City Elf Origin

* * *

**W 1f:**  
Length: ca. 450 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (cussing)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Bann Teagan  
Characters: main: Bann Teagan, f!Tabris; mentioned: Alistair  
Timeframe: in-game, first visit to Redcliffe; Spoilers for related quests

* * *

**W 1g:**  
Length: ca. 800 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (cussing)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Morrigan  
Characters: main: Morrigan, f!Tabris, Alistair; mentioned: Bann Teagan, Sten, Shale, Leliana  
Timeframe: in-game, first visit to Redcliffe; Spoilers for related quests

* * *

**W 1h:**  
Length: ca. 300 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of death)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: Alistair  
Characters: main: Alistair, f!Tabris; mentioned: Sten  
Timeframe: in game, spoilers for City Elf Origin

* * *

**X:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Alistair  
Timeframe: in-game, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**Y:**  
Length: ca. 1300 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (partial nudity)  
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, Zevran   
Timeframe: in-game, but no major plot points covered

* * *

**Z:**  
Length: 100 words  
Rating: Teenage And Up Audiences (mention of rape & murder)  
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con (not shown, but mentioned)  
Viewpoint: f!Tabris  
Characters: main: f!Tabris, mentioned: Zathrian  
Timeframe: in-game, during “Nature of the Beast”, constains spoilers for that Quest


	2. Tabris Family Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> family tree for my female Tabris, Nirai

Red lines are for blood relations, purple lines for marriage.

NPCs encountered in Dragon Age:Origins (including the Leliana's Song DLC) and the City Elf PC are bolded. Those NPCs that were seen (or at least mentioned somehow), but not named in game, are cursive.

This includes Nessa's parents (I named them Anrai and Elea) and one of the bridesmaids (I named her Sharai).

For the birth dates I used toolset data as a guideline.

I fit as many family members on one DinA4 page as I could to show how Nirai is related to each of her cousins.

Not shown are the siblings (OCs) of various cousins (NPCs). I have no details regarding Nola's older brothers, as of yet they are unimportant for my fanfic.

Maeve's kids are:

Nia *8:99

Fintan *9:01

Elva: *9:02

Morna: *9:05

Jimena's kids are:

Jair *9:04

Naor *9:06

Sharai *9:07

Varda *9*09

Although Nirai only ever gets to know four of those children (Fintan & Elva, Sharai & Varda) their fates influence not just her own, but that of the whole Alienage.

The family tree starts with the surname Satarel.

Since the dowry among City Elves is not paid for the bride, but for the party marrying into another alienage, regardless of gender, my headcanon is that this person is also the one to change their name, taking the surname of the family whose alienage they marry into. (The Mikhar family name comes from Anrai, who is from the Denerim alienage.)

There can be exceptions, however, for example when both parties are from the same alienage, or one surname starts dominating an alienage.

(The Tabris family name comes from Odelia, who moved from Orlais to Denerim during the occupation.)

It might look odd to outsiders, but since bloodlines are meticulously documented to avoid interbreeding, the matchmakers are able to track who is who even with surnames being inherited neither patrilinear nor matrilinear.

Updated the image with the boxes coloured in for a better overview. Removing the boxes around certain names to group them together, instead giving individuals with the same surname the same colour, also corrected the mistake that included Elva's family as members of the Satarel family, since Elva's mom was from a different family. The relation between the Satarel and Gethel family is via the husbands, who took the names of their wives.

For a short summary of the family history, refer to chapter A 1/2.

Since Tabris and Mahariel are the names of Angels, I used Angel names for the other surnames as well.


	3. A 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short summary of the Tabris & Satarel family history, to go with the family tree.

Her family’s history had always been a colorful one and was riddled with scandals big and small.  
It all begun with her great-great-great-grandmother Siriol, who had the bad luck of making her way to her betrothed in company of a merchant caravan that got ambushed by the dalish.  
Being an elf – a flat-ear to the dalish, but an elf nevertheless – saved her life, and she spent some time with the clan trying to figure out how to get home. After all, a young city elf is hardly cut out for braving the wilds – or the road – all alone.

When next spring she reappeared at her parent’s doorstep, who had long since given up hope, with a young dalish healer in tow, they were both welcomed with open arms. The two of them became husband and wife, which – or so the story said – required them to forge their wedding permit, as the Revered Mother of Gwaren out right refused to call down the Makers blessing upon a heathen.  
She had always found that reasoning flawed, seeing as the Chant of Light supposedly had to be spread to all four corners of the world for the Maker to return.

One would think the clergy should jump at any chance they got to convert a heathen to the Andrastian faith instead of loathing his presence.  
Nirai herself was Andrastian only by the vaguest definition of the word: revering Andraste as a saint but ignoring the Maker entirely. She refused to grovel before a god who would ignore most of the faithful while not every living soul bowed to him. She did not care for the absent elvhen gods, either.

Most likely Siriol and Tiored had bribed some lower Chantry official rather than risk a sham, but you know how stories are when passed on only in spoken form; the words flow like a river, bending, twisting, ever changing, with some details getting lost in the current, and others washing up that haven’t been there before.

On that much all the versions agreed though: Siriol and Tiored settled down in Gwaren and had three children. He’d never truly managed to fit in, and died in a purge, defending his wife and children.  
Their eldest, Arla, ran off to join the dalish after that purge.  
She took all that her parents had recorded about their story in ink with her, as proof of her heritage, but left Fang behind, so her brothers would have a means of defending themselves against further cruelty from the shem.

The youngest, Sahmal, took to drinking after the purge. It had killed his father, driven off his sister, and defiled the girl he loved. All his healing skills could not save her when she tried to rid herself of the short-ear growing in her belly.  
Heartbroken, he turned to meaningless dalliances instead. Broke a few hearts himself, and might even have fathered a bastard or two, before meeting an untimely end at the hands of a drunken sailor in a tavern brawl – though it might well have been him that started the fight in the first place.

Nehnir, the middle one, eloped with Hedra, a girl who had taken her parent’s miserable marriage as reason enough to be opposed to them making a match for her. Some said their overhasty departure was to outmaneuver the potential groom already on his way to Gwaren and the disapproval of the dishonored parents. Others guessed at them trying to outrun his brother’s reputation as well as the heretic heritage Tiored had been trying to impart.

While the former might be true, the latter most assuredly wasn’t. Not only had they taken the Fang of Fen’Harel with them, they brought what bits and pieces they remembered of dalish lore and language as well as Tiored’s teaching about healing with them to Denerim.  
When later that year the Orlesians sacked Denerim, the pair got away with nothing but the clothes on their back (and Fang, tucked away in one of Nehnir’s boots).

Their greatest sorrow was not over the loss of their home and belongings, but at the miscarriage Hedra had suffered during the attack on the city.  
They managed to rebuild, though, as elves are wont to do whenever their Alienages suffer, be it from purge or plage or politics.  
Their daughter Neima would have been the first of the Satarel family to finally fit in nicely.   
The son, Nadir had gotten a girl into trouble, but at least done the honorable thing after, and married her. Neima had married the traditional way, meaning a match made by their parents and approved by the chantry. 

But then the girl just had to set the tongues wagging again, didn’t she? Just up and vanished, taking her babe with her and leaving a scorned husband behind. The theories ranged from her being off to the Dalish - some rumor reiterated so often it was hardly worth the tattle – to tales that left the realm of mere speculation and entered that of seaman’s yarn.   
The truth was a simple one she revealed only to her parents: her kid had shown signs of magic, and rather than giving him up to the chantry and ruining their reputation through his very nature, she indeed was off to find the dalish, who viewed magic as a gift instead of a curse.

Losing his first wife in childbed, Nadir remarried a few years later, a childhood friend of his.  
One could almost overlook her being an escaped Tevinter slave – new blood for the Alienage and all that. She even did her best to adjust to city elf tradition, with one exception: she had not wanted an arranged match for herself, and didn’t want one for her children, either; no one, Aenea insisted, should be told with whom to breed. The matter should be cause for much quarreling among Nadir and Aenea.

Their eldest, Fayne, married a man of her own choosing, but found him to be unfaithful, and the marriage became a love-hate-relationship. Her twin sister had gotten herself killed during one of the so-called purges, resisting to be taken by slavers, before she was old enough for marriage, either way.  
After that, Nadir insisted on a match for their son, Telor. When his first wife, a match made by Nadir, died in childbed, Aenea saw that as the will of the Maker, freeing her son to marry for love, which he did three years later.  
She only gave in to the match for her youngest, when the girl herself begged for it, fearing to never find love and stay a child forever. She insisted, however, that her daughter have a say in the match, and the one Tirion picked led her back to Gwaren, where the Satarel name had originated.

From that on, the part of the family remaining in Denerim sort of split into two branches: the offspring of the older daughter, which turned out quite respectable, carrying on the tradition of healing that had been passed on through the generations from their dalish ancestor.  
And the offspring of the only son; when he remarried for love, he took the name of his wife. That alone was unusual enough, since she had been the one to come to Denerim.  
But maybe he’d simply wanted a fresh start under a fresh name, to no longer be reminded of the wife he’d lost. 

He’d chosen an odd one, and Orlesian, no less. A learned cook, on the surface, but so much more lurked beneath that.  
Odelia Tabris knew how to fight, and taught her children, even the stepson, how to do it, too.  
Not that it did Lirone much good when the purge came. His half-sister Adaia was the real fighter, saving several lives during that tragedy, so the community was inclined to look the other way, where the dalish dagger and her wielding it were concerned.

The Satarel line, however – at least part of it – had mages popping up like mushrooms, now.  
It might have been the fault of Jimena’s husband, for that one’s brother had married Maeve Gethel, and she’d birthed at least one mage, too. Or perhaps it was simply an unlucky combination of two bloodlines carrying magic. One never knew, these things might skip a generation.

All in all, the Tabris and Satarel family line had accumulated more than enough incidents to keep the tongues wagging.  
Nirai knew most of that, because her mother had tried and explain to her, and in the next breath told her to take none of it to heart. She tried. But for all she told herself that she did not care, would not care, what others thought of her, she carried the disapproval like a burden she did not know how to set down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Ancestry


	4. A 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shemlen more often than not meant trouble. Especially in the alienage, and especially those in armour.

Growing up inside the Alienage, one grew to equate armour with trouble. Not that trouble always came armoured, mind you, and on occasion templars could be fair and stalwart defenders against abominations. It helped that templars only came along with the one priest who dared to enter the Alienage on the scarce occasions when she doled out alms. While their presence ostensibly ensured that things were divided evenly, it served more to protect the priest from unruly elves that were a little too eager for her charity than to prevent squabbling amongst the poor. Still, there was nothing to worry about there, if one behaved.

The city garrison were tolerable so long as they were outside the Alienage, watching the gates. Out there, you could try to dodge them, escape their notice by losing yourself in the crowd, or placate them by bowing to their authority. Once they came looking for someone, however, there was no avoiding them. It was their job to keep trouble out, though they obviously didn’t get, or merely ignored, one truth: humans inside the Alienage usually provoked trouble. Trouble for the elves, of course, which was why the city guard wasn’t bothered.

How hard could it be to distinguish between real shemlen and the few elf-blooded ones? The short-ears might try to appear well groomed and make attempts to fit in with the humans; but their clothing, regardless of cleanliness, would most assuredly be threadbare and patched and of mediocre quality at best. Most of all, though, it was hard to leave behind all the years spent in the Alienage, the patterns of behaviour bred to the bone.

The garrison ignored both the subtle and the obvious differences between short-ears and shems. They let the shemlen come and go as they pleased, turning a blind eye to whatever they did inside as well. After all, who were they to say no to a pompous noble prat if he wanted to have a good look at the knife-ears? Honest men looking for servants, probably. Yeah, that must be it.

Whenever the city guard entered the Alienage however, it was to inflict justice on some elf that had done something bad. Never once had they found justice for an elf something bad had been done to, and there were loads of those. So, when the templars had come on their own that day, Soris had known it meant trouble.

***

The heat was even worse than it had been the week before. It hadn’t rained in days, and every last puddle in the streets had dried up. Without the shallow pools the women usually gathered around to do laundry, they were forced to haul up water from the well and fill some wooden tubs they had brought outside. Soris heard two women squeal and giggle like little kids as they playfully splashed each other before resuming their laundry work. The women prepared a separate tub for their kids to splash around, and sat the smaller ones inside to fully enjoy what little refreshment the water brought, keeping them content and within eyesight.

Some other kids homed in on the vhenadahl, where Soris and his cousins sat already and savoured the shade it cast.

“What’s he doing here?” Elva, dour as ever, asked. Her glare specified who she meant. Iluy Surana shifted uncomfortably under that hostile gaze and picked a spot as far from her as possible as he sat down. His twin drifted over to the washtubs, preferring the water to the shade.

“Sweating like a shem”, Nirai shot back, “like everyone else in this damn heat.”

“Shut up, Tabris!”

“Shut it yourself! He has as much right to be here as you do. You don’t like it, you can leave.”

Soris groaned. Nirai and Elva never got along, and tempers ran as high today as the temperature did. He just hoped that this would not progress past their usual bickering. He believed that the heat would deter everyone from moving any more than they absolutely had to.  
  
Nirai was known to scuffle with other kids, even the older and bigger ones, over a lot of things: a difference in opinion, a personal insult, or anyone badmouthing her family. He loved that she stood up for herself and her loved ones, and in this case Iluy, but Elva was twice her age. And right now all Soris wanted was some peace and quiet.

“Last thing we need is him setting fire to our tree, like he probably did to their home.”

“Why do you think that was his fault?” Sharai asked, and Iluy gave her a thankful little smile.

“Why wouldn’t I? Just look at him! It’s obvious what he is. Everyone could tell when he turned. And only a few days later…. whoosh!” Elva raised her hands in a dramatic gesture, then started flapping them to fan herself. “One day it’s one hut going up in flames, and the next thing you know…” The teenage girl stilled and trailed off.

A hush fell over the community square at the sight of the two hulking figures that came toward them along the dirt path with their armour gleaming in the sun. Their brightly reflective helmets covered their entire faces, so both men appeared even more ominous.

“Come on, Cous’, let’s go,” Soris pleaded, and Nirai got to her feet only to stand and get a better look.

“They’re not city guard,” she observed, frowning at the men.

Soris was used to the simple, open-faced helmets of the city garrison, and the ability to see their faces helped a lot when judging how much trouble was about to ensue. These seemed more like somewhat ornate, overturned buckets, but they engendered more solemnity than levity. The eye slit looked downright menacing and dispelled any humour.

“Templars,” Sharai hissed. She hugged her little sister Varda tight, whispering frantically in the girl’s ear.

The kneeling women gathered their little ones closer, too, the laundry forgotten for the moment.

“What do you think they want?” Nola piped up, nervous.

“D-Don’t worry,” Soris tried to reassure her, failing miserably, for he himself quivered with suppressed fear. “They only hurt a-apostinations.”

“Strutting around like they own the place.” Nirai stood with her with her hands on her hips, but had enough sense to keep her voice down, at least.

“We heard talk of a mage hiding among you,” one of the templars called out without ceremony. “An individual without the proper education and restraint will soon discover their curse posing a threat to your entire community. Save yourselves and hand them over.”

Soris would not have thought that any elf would rat out one of their own to the shemlen, even if they were Chantry. As templar heads swivelled to scan the gathered crowd, all of them frozen in place — no one dared to try and sneak off, lest they draw the eye and suspicion of the Chantry — Elva got up and pointed out their prey. Iluy Surana paled, his skin turning almost as white from fear as his hair had become when his powers had woken within him.

“It’s him!” Elva proclaimed, and everything dissolved into utter chaos.

The Surana boy leapt to his feet and started sprinting, the templars hot on his heels. His brother screamed in denial and reached out toward his fleeing twin, as their mother clutched him to her chest.

“Stupid snitch!” Nirai yelled, restrained not by her own good sense — she was sadly lacking in that regard — but by Soris, as he struggled to stop her from attacking Elva. Soris had Nirai locked in his arms, pinning her arms to her sides, and her back to his chest. She could do no more than shake her fists at both Elva and him in anger.

To his utter surprise, Sharai, who was the most collected of their cousins and mature beyond her eleven years, flew past them, and jumped the older girl. She crashed into Elva with such force that she brought her down despite their sizable height difference. They rolled across the ground, a flailing mess of pummelling fists and pulled hair.

Nola, who was sweet, shy, and easy to scare, rocked back and forth, praying in a high, reedy voice. Varda, no longer held by Sharai, darted off in another direction to hide, Soris wasn’t sure where, in the sudden chaos of people moving every which way. Mothers tried to get their kids to safety. Some unsupervised kids slunk off, others threw their lot in with Sharai, who made up for her smaller stature with sheer outrage, and the rest picked Elva, who already sported a split lip and spit out blood and curses. One woman tried to pull them apart without success and shouted down the calls cheering for either side.

The younger Surana twin still screamed his head off, his face covered in tears, snot, and spittle from his tantrum. And then his mother screamed too, as his tears turned to steam, and his skin started bubbling and smoking like stew left too long over the fire. Soris saw it with horrifying clarity, as if time itself slowed so he could witness it bit by bit. Without it, he could not have coped with the chaos and cacophony surrounding him.

Asha Surana let go of her son, finally, and the skin of her arms sloughed off, leaving raw, burnt flesh where they had touched. Her dress smouldered. Soris perceived that, though the heat he felt even at this distance distorted the air. And then her dress caught fire, her hair caught fire, her son... well, he didn’t catch fire. Or conjure it, though given this display he, not his brother, was likely the reason their hut had burned down in the first place. He became a living furnace, some twisted, glowing, flowing thing of molten rock and malice.

Soris clutched his cousin no longer for her sake, but his own, scared out of his mind. He’d been too young to truly remember the day his parents had burned to death, pushed back into their home by the angry mob, but his subconscious brought him right back to that point. He couldn’t have felt any more helpless now if he’d been barely two years old once more. 

Soris lost control of his grip, and to his shame, his bladder. He could no longer hold back his cousin, who squirmed out of his arms but did not leave his side, or the trickle of urine that stained his trousers. The sight of the burning woman stumbling away, as she flailed and wailed in agony and utter terror... of that... that thing, its monstrous mass boiling forth from what had been a little boy and now had become his worst nightmare.

The monstrosity had no legs, just a single column, fanning out at the bottom, and it sprouted a hunched, misshapen torso with the merest hint of a head and strong arms ending in claws. The slug-like nightmare slid along the dusty earth and left not a slime trail, but one of burnt ground that looked almost molten. Even at this distance, Soris felt the heat rolling off it in waves, a dry, deadly, scorching force far greater than that of the summer sun.

“Abomination!” he heard one of the templars yell from somewhere farther off. “Rage abomination!” 

A moment’s realization took Soris out of his abject terror: _right, that’s the word, that’s what I meant to say._ That, or whatever was the word for a mage outside chantry control. Apo-something. Surely, using the wrong vocabulary was the least of his problems right now. Especially when his cousin, who’d stood with her arms slightly outstretched as if to somehow shield him, turned to face him and insisted, “We need to do something!”

“We need to run!” he squawked back at her, his voice high-pitched from panic. “The templars can take care of it.”

He tried to grasp Nirai’s hand to drag her off, but she moved faster than him. Her hands flew to his shoulders, steadying him.

“Yes!” she agreed to his immense relief, only to pull the rug right out from under him with her next words, pointing the direction of the main gate. “You run, get help. Get more templars here! I’ll distract it!”

She grabbed one of the buckets and filled it with wash water.

“You’ll what?” he whimpered. “Are you crazy? You’ll catch fire, like…”

His mind finally caught up with the figure wreathed in flames, that writhed weakly on the ground and barely resembled a person by now. How was she still alive? Had his parents looked like that, suffered like that? How close had he come to that same terrible fate?

Soris fell to his knees next to one of the tubs and was violently sick into it. He gave no thought to the abandoned articles of clothing floating in the water. The terror of the one area in the city, where they were supposed to be safe, suddenly being invaded by something worse than all the humans in the world put together, overwhelmed him.

“Eww!” his cousin recoiled from him, sloshing water from her brimful bucket. She got it out just in time to keep its contents clean.

And he could not believe she expressed disgust at that when there were an abomination and a woman burning alive right in front of them, contesting for the throne of all things revolting. He understood a little better when she emptied the bucket over her head, though. Of course, she wouldn’t want to douse herself with his vomit. But why the water?

“What are you doing?” Soris wiped his mouth, still propped up on the rim of the tub.

“Making sure I won’t catch fire,” she declared, absurdly calm. “That thing could burn down the entire Alienage. We need to stop it. Now go! RUN!”

She dipped the bucket into the tub once more despite the yellow splotch full of chunks drifting in there, then turned and full out flung its contents at the abomination. There was an awful hiss as the water promptly evaporated, obscuring the abomination from view for a moment. To Soris’ even greater shame, he found his feet and ran without her, as the demon burst from the cloud of steam towards them.

“Don’t make it mad!” he yelled over his shoulder in desperation.

“It’s a rage demon!” he heard her bellowing back. “It’s always mad!”

Soris bypassed one of the templars who, thank the Maker, swerved back to confront the creature just in time to come to his cousin’s aid. The other just stood some way ahead and held on to the prey he had chased down. He seemed undecided which Surana to handle, the apo-something or the abomination. Soris slid to a halt and turned around when he heard her scream. The thing had managed to grab Nirai by the arm despite her attempts to dodge it. It let go as the first templar brought his sword down hard on its arm in retaliation.

Despite the precaution of wetting her clothes down, she had to beat out small flames where the burning fingers had been closed round her sleeve. She had the sense to duck out of the direct proximity of the fight, at least, so the templar could swing his sword without endangering her. But instead of truly getting herself to safety, she grabbed a bucket again, this time filling it with stones she snatched up from the ground. He loved and hated her for her bravery, not sure which one won out in the end.

The templar tried to fend off the creature with his shield, while his cousin darted around just out of reach and pelted it with stones to distract it, trying to create an opening for the fully grown and trained man to do something hopefully more effective than simply hitting it. Did a thing like that even have a heart you could pierce? Any weakness at all? Or was it rock and flame through and through? Those couldn't bleed or feel pain. Could it feel anything, aside from rage?

The templar dropped his sword with a curse and a clang, its first few inches scorched and twisted, the rest of the steel glowing an angry red, too hot to hold onto any longer. From the corner of his eye Soris caught that the second templar did something to the Surana boy. Not something physical, a sort of templar thing, that nevertheless knocked Iluy out cold. He left the kid crumpled in a pile and finally tried to take care of the real problem.

_She’s counting on you_ , Soris reminded himself, and ran. If he was honest with himself, he just wasn’t brave enough to go back and fetch his cousin and drag her to safety now that the soldiers had entered the fight. He felt that truth burn in his stomach with a heat that equalled that of the abomination he left farther behind with each step.

***

Soris didn’t know what exactly he had expected when proposing that they get rid of the swarthy shem. Not the look the shem gave his cousin right now, for sure. It was appreciative and searching. Like Vaughan, this warrior tried to take in the shape of her body underneath her wedding dress. The shem’s face however did not express the emotions Soris would have expected. No lust for the female form, no disregard for the elvhen race. A human showing respect was weird.

Soris didn’t know why, but it made him uneasy — way more than Vaughan’s lecherous leer had. The thin cloth didn’t do much to conceal her slender figure, but Nirai wore her calm demeanour like armour, as if it could keep her safe from harm. He should have known better than to set his cousin onto a shem, acquaintance of the hahren or no. Shemlen more often than not meant trouble. Especially in the Alienage, and especially those in armour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Armour  
> Alienage  
> Abomination
> 
> I want to say thanks to the fabulous AblatedCrayon for beta-reading and all the input that elevated this chapter incredibly!  
> Making good observations regarding content  
> Finding more precise vocabulary to convey what I meant to say (I especially loved the phrase "inflict justice", which shows the system is rigged)  
> Pointing out my overuse of passive voice and helper verbs that made the story less direct/gripping  
> Paying attention to detail, even things like paragraph breaks and quotation marks
> 
> The good advice alone is worth a ton and helped me improve my style for the future. Thank you so much again for investing the time and energy to help me out. This story would not be the same without you!
> 
> For details on Nirai and her relatives you can look up my family tree in chapter 2. 
> 
> Headcanon:  
> All the unmarried female relatives are the bridesmaids at a wedding.  
> That would mean that in addition to Shianni, both Nola and the unnamed bridesmaid (I decided to call her Sharai) are related to Tabris at some degree.  
> To simplify things, all relatives around your own age are called “Cousin” regardless of the actual relation, and their parents “Aunt” and “Uncle”.  
> I figured that Sharai and Elva are cousins, so Elva is distantly related to Tabris (not by blood, but by marriage).
> 
> I have always wondered what made those two (Elva and Sharai) so bitter/pessimistic in Origins, and try to explore this in my fics a bit, because it plays into the background of my f!Tabris.  
> You’ve glimpsed a hint of it here, for more about Elva and Sharai check out the letter W, 1c & 1d. 
> 
> I took the term “short-ear” for elf-blooded humans from this blog:  
> https://theshadowdreams-blog.tumblr.com/post/123561131172/city-elven-vocabulary  
> I found the idea fascinating, that City Elves have an ear-related slur for elf-blooded humans, just like Dalish Elves have one for City Elves, and other races have for Elves in general.


	5. B 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> broken bones and broken hearts after Adaia's death

“He started it!”

“I don’t care who started it.” Sharai spoke evenly, not rising in anger. Yet her disappointment was more than evident in her eyes, in the frown almost knotting her eyebrows together. “You knocked out two of his teeth.”

“He broke my nose!” Nirai practically howled, indignant that her cousin could take anyone’s side but hers.

“He did.” Sharai allowed and elicited another howl from Nirai, this time one of agony, as she set the bone. “Now tell me, which of those will mend?”

For the next few moments, Nirai did her best impression of a fish washed up on land — squirming helplessly, mouth opening and closing without a sound. It was not the first time she’d clashed with Braedon, Taeodor’s eldest brother, and it probably would not be the last. Ever since the purge that had orphaned him and his brothers, Braedon had harboured a deep-rooted dislike for “troublemakers”, like her. A fistfight had caused that purge, so he hated anyone who dared put up a fight.

“Hold still!” Sharai scolded. She washed the blood from Nirai’s face with a wet cloth and dabbed elfroot essence on the swollen flesh.

“He... he said—”

“Bashing his face in won't make anything he said more or less true.”

Nirari thought it was sort of ironic that he’d resorted to violence himself, to try and get her to fall in line. It had started years ago, with a slap and a toy torn apart, and escalated ever since. Her mamae had taught her well, and she knew how to defend herself. If anything, Braedon's attempts to dominate her had only spurned her on to get better at fighting. Today they’d been full out brawling in the street.

He had not just broken her nose, but her heart, and she needed Sharai to understand that.

“He said Mamae only got what she deserved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Brawling


	6. B 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

„Stop calling me beautiful!“ She snapped. „Seriously, what is up with you guys? You think you just whip out that word and any girl will fall swooning into your arms?“  
If it had been that easy, she’d have joined him in his tent long ago. She’d told him no, and he’d accepted that and kept his hands to himself. There was no harm, and a lot of fun, however, in flirting with his Warden. Well... flirting at his Warden, more like.

He had not yet gotten her to reciprocate. Neither had Alistair, though.  
In fact, she’d been a lot less welcoming of the other Warden’s advances than his own, and if that hadn’t piqued his interest!  
Since Alistair had offered that rose, however, she had grown more and more irritated whenever he himself tried to charm her.

Zevran raised his hands in a placating gesture.  
„No swooning. Duly noted. I still think you beautiful.“  
„Stop saying that.“  
Zevran noticed the tightening of her cheek muscle as she clenched her jaw, not quite a nervous tick. If it had started to actually twitch, he’d have known not to pursue this line of conversation any further. As it was, her face simply hardened, then stilled. Her naturally protruding chin had only inched that tiny bit farther, that turned her almost pout into an actual one.

That pout alone was noteworthy. To him, it had always appeared rather sexy than sulky, her blazing eyes a challenge he eagerly accepted.  
„Because it annoys you?“  
He couldn’t help but smirk. She could be endearingly bashful, and he savoured her shyness as much as he did her spunk. Whether her eyes sparked with defiance or widened in surprise, they were beautiful to behold.

„Because it’s not true!“  
She wasn’t playing coy. He could tell from the brittle undertone that had stolen into her voice, dimming its lustre. She did not merely seem to doubt he found her attractive, but that anyone would. Zevran cocked his head in consideration. He could feel his nose twitch as he picked up on the scent of her insecurity. Not an actual smell, of course. Not like the clear, crisp fragrance of soap lingering beneath layers of leather, mixing with the more personal note of fresh sweat, whenever he got close enough during one of their training sessions that he could not help but breathe in her scent. But his hunting instincts had awoken, his prey the truth. This he had to know.  
„Whatever gave you that idea?“

„Well, I’m too tall, for starters.“  
„Not for Alistair.“ Her glare spoke louder than words, reinforcing his notion that Alistair’s affection for the Warden was one-sided. And best not mentioned, if his intent was to tease, not outright provoke, her.  
„Nor me.“ He added. „What has height to do with beauty anyhow? Some human women are as tall as you. The men even taller. Am I supposed to not find any of them attractive?“  
Any height difference became less noticeable anyway when you got laid. Once you had someone on their back, or on top of you, and started ravishing each other. Best not to mention that, either. She could get touchy if he became to explicit.

„I... that’s different.“  
That she did not elaborate immediately meant she was weighing her arguments, not that she didn’t have any. He’d likely have to draw them out and dismantle them one by one.  
„Why?“  
„They’re shem. Of course, it’s different!“ She hesitated for a heartbeat, groaned in frustration, then blamed his background – being raised first in a brothel, then by assassins – for not understanding her: „Ugh, you don’t get it. You did not grow up in an Alienage, you were raised differently. You’re...“  
Not one of hers, no. A city elf, yes. But not where traditions and trained behaviours were concerned. He did understand, however, what it was like to feel unwanted. Worthless. He could emphasize.  
And maybe, if she’d give him her reasons, he’d be able to counter them, undo some of the damage she’d clearly suffered at the hands of her peers.  
„Explain, then. Otherwise you will have to suffer my honest, if apparently unqualified praise.“

„I don’t look like I’m supposed to, alright?“  
He’d guessed that much already. But she didn’t stop there, painting a precise picture of what she perceived her flaws to be. Her voice rose with each insecurity she confessed, until she practically shouted them at him.  
„I’m too big, with broad shoulders and a broad chin. I was never delicate. I wasn’t cute as a kid or pretty as an adolescent, and I was most definitely never beautiful! I have a jutting jaw that gives me a constant pout. My mouth and teeth are too big. I have bushy brows and a stupid shem nose that’s been broken twice. I... Andraste’s ass, even you must see that, I have UGLY EARS! They’re the wrong shape, the wrong angle, they’re simply WRONG! I LOOK WRONG!“

It was quite the list, but to be honest, he still didn’t see the problem that appeared so glaringly obvious to her.  
„My dear Warden. Beauty, as you should well know, is in the eye of the beholder. If those elves did not see it in you, they simply did not look properly.“  
„What’s there to see?“ She demanded, presenting him the perfect opening to start balancing out the insults and slander she’d soaked up until someone else’s convictions had become her own.

Most people measured beauty by some standard they strove for, denying themselves the opportunity to let their unique features shine. Zevran had seen few people in his live he’d truly considered ugly. Variety made things more interesting, the same way spices kept a dish from being too bland.

„What’s there to see? Quite a lot, actually. Your skin might bear some signs of battle, but otherwise it is clear and unblemished. I can almost imagine how smooth it would feel under my fingers.“  
Or how her calloused fingers would feel, caressing his own skin. Inexperienced, but nimble. Eager to learn, for she did not like feeling inept.  
He grinned at the thought, savouring the sensation of a touch only imagined, but sweet, nonetheless.

Her full lips would be rough as well. She tended to bite them, when she was deep in thought or struggling with her emotions, and they were chapped most of the time.  
„Your mouth is sensual, made for kisses and laughter. It harbours a clever tongue that doles out passionate arguments and dry humour, even if it is stingy with kisses as of yet.“  
He could teach that tongue a few tricks, expand upon its use, so it no longer just formed words, but found and brought pleasure, sliding against his own or across his body.

She’d be more than welcome to keep practising with him. If she set her mind to it, she’d probably be able to start him moaning, no matter how unrefined her skills might be at first. He’d never held back on that account. His mind, however, was more focused on the noises he’d be able to coax from her. Restraining herself like this, denying herself (and him) even the simplest carnal pleasures, she might hold back in more than one regard. How much sweeter it would be, then, to take her apart until she was a complete mess beneath his ministrations and could no longer control herself. He’d make sure to break down her inhibitions and stoke her fires until the whole camp could hear her.

„That crooked smile of yours is absolutely stunning, and you probably don’t even want to know what your voice can do to a guy when you simply talk. To think what you’d sound like when getting naughty, it“  
„Damn right, I don’t want to hear that!“ She cut him off. „I asked what there was to see, not about your lewd imagination and whatever gets it going.“  
He laughed; almost glad she had stopped his imagination from running away with him. That voice of hers seemed sultry even when saying mundane things. If she were to start talking dirty, or become incoherent with sensation, actually moaning...  
He could feel that phantom sound vibrating in his belly and stored it away for later. Too distracting.

„Ah, but my dear Warden, beauty comes in all shapes. Sight, sound, smell, touch and taste.“  
Her eyes and even her pupils widened, and he could pick out the subtle change of colour in her dark skin as she blushed. Delightful.  
„A person’s beauty is too layered to be reduced to the visual aspect only, wouldn’t you agree? I do however promise to reduce the salacious commentary to a minimum while singing your praise from now on. For the foreseeable future, at least.“  
He’d likely driven her to the brink of what she could handle for now. Any more than that, and it would drive her off.

„No need to repeat yourself.“ She promptly insisted. „Whether you say it twice, or three times, or even a hundred, doesn’t make a thing any more or less true. So, save your breath.“  
„So, you accept that there is truth to it, then. Just because your perception differs from mine, it does not invalidate it, yes? I’m glad we cleared that up.“  
How sweet the taste of triumph.

„Moving on, then. Your...“  
„There’s more?“ She interrupted him again, incredulous. Zevran had to bite back a laugh. She couldn’t begin to fathom what she had invited with her innocent questions.  
„Of course, there is. Now, where was I? Eye. That’s my cue! Your thick brows only serve to draw attention to your eyes, which might be your best feature by far. Their shape is alluring and their mixed colours mesmerizing, but most importantly of all they are expressive. I have yet to learn to read them properly, but the emotions they convey are marvellous in their intensity. Your inner fire burns bright, and I am drawn to it like a moth to the flame.“

„Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?“  
As thick as he dared. He held back on the more... savoury parts, saving those for another day, when she would be ready to hear what she did to him and what he intended to do to her.  
„Know your audience.“ If she was flustered, all the better. It meant he’d gotten partly past her defences, without triggering one of the many traps strewn about. Once he did, she’d reinforce her bulwark and draw back into it even further. Strategy was the keyword here, not speed. One wrong move and he’d be back where he’d begun.

„You, my dear, are so convinced of looking inadequate that any subtlety on this matter would indeed be a waste of my breath. I’ll have to be direct if I want to overcome your obstinate insistence regarding your lack of appeal. You are a lot of things people did not believe you could be. A fighter. A leader. A Warden. Why not a beauty, too? You defied the nay-sayers in each and every case. You argue with or ignore them, like you did with Sten, when he so charmingly informed you that you could not possibly be a woman, of all things.“

He remembered well how, when Sten had likened one’s former life to the shell of a turtle, him and Nirai had argued back and forth. Her insisting that the shell provided protection, him that it would cause the turtle to be trapped on its back once it fell. She’d stared the Qunari down despite having to look up at him and declared: „I’ll just have to keep landing on my feet, then.“  
She definitely hadn’t landed well in this case, her former community deciding part of her self-worth. He wouldn’t have that, not if he could help it.

„Yet you will give in to their opinion on what you can be, regarding the one thing you don't even have to work all that hard for?“  
One could always enhance what was already given, but part of the physical beauty of a person was intrinsic. He assumed that the same could be said for skills, building upon a talent, but he continued his chosen path:  
„When you had to start from scratch to achieve the rest, fight tooth and nail to gain a position of strength and authority? Nonsense. You deserve to know your own worth, even in a matter you deem of far less consequence than your skills. You've let too many deprecating voices cloud your judgement where your looks are concerned, so I simply have to be louder than all those put together to clear it.“

„I...“  
She was at a loss for words. Good. That she'd had no time to prepare against this approach told him that no one had praised her beauty just for the sake of it, before. Of course, she'd be cross with compliments if all she could see was an ulterior motive. If she'd taken all observations made of her beauty as mere flattery, instead of facts. He would not let her insecurities make him a liar, so he’d simply have to convince her of the truth.

„You might not aim for appealing.“ Zevran amended. „You do, however, avoid appearing sloppy like the plague. You take great care with your hair, even if you hide those masterful braids under a scarf most of the time. It makes those moments when you let it loose in all its wild glory even more enticing.“  
He had caught himself more than once wanting to burrow into her hair. To card his hands through it, twist a curl around his finger. To rest his cheek against it as if it were a pillow and breathe deeply of that woodsy note, he’d picked up on but could not quite place.

„And despite being covered in gore half the time, you mostly manage to smell quite pleasant. You have a magnificent bosom and deliciously long, toned legs.“  
He had to stop himself from imagining those legs wrapped around his hips as he drove into her. He knew full well that now was not the time to indulge that fantasy.  
„You are strong, capable, and graceful, which is attractive in a way that goes deeper than just your looks. Need I go on?“

It took her a few moments to muster a response.  
„You better be careful with that honeyed tongue of yours. In excess, honey is no longer sweet.“  
He threw his head back, laughing.  
„I shall endeavour to spread out my compliments in a way that guarantees the biggest possible impact, then, since it seems I have a lot of conditioning to undo. There is nothing wrong with you, my dear Warden, and whoever made you believe otherwise is an utter fool.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Beauty
> 
> Headcanon:  
> Since Zevran lost his dalish mother young, and grew up among whores and assassins, I do not think he was taught a lot of elven customs and his view of beauty does not adhere to elven standards.  
> Nirai’s view is dominated by elven standards, and she always felt her looks were below average, mostly because of her ears. They are broad, flat, and rounded, which I figure would be unappealing.
> 
> If you are interested, I have a whole meta post concerning elf ears, just check out my other works.


	7. C 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clash of character and culture over some important stuff. Inlcuding cheese.

„You killed a cat?“  
„So?“  
„But... it’s a CAT.“  
Alistair sounded so... disbelieving. Distraught, even.  
Nirai couldn’t help but sneer. They killed PEOPLE today, damn it, and he hadn’t given her a hard time about that, aside from calling her callous.  
„What, do we have a policy not to kill anything that could be considered cute? It’s a good thing the Darkspawn are ugly blighters, then.“

„But why?“ He almost whined.  
„What do you mean, why?“  
„Why keep it? Why kill it in the first place? What did it do? Scratch you when you tried to pet it? Piss on your boots? What?“  
„It came along just in time for dinner.“  
„Dinner.“ He echoed.  
She could almost hear the hitch in his thought process, the halting of whatever was running through that head of his. His eyes widened in horror as it shifted into motion again, when she started skinning the cat.  
„Maker, you’re going to eat it?“ He sounded panicked, all right, and she brandished her knife furiously.

„What did you expect me to do, cut off its head so I could stick it to my trophy wall?“  
For one moment, she couldn’t help but picture that, absurd as it was. It would fit right between Arl’s son, Bereskarn, and Darkspawn. She wasn’t one to collect trophies from her kills, just scars on her body and mind.  
 _It’s a shame about the pelt, though._  
She knew how to cure hides, but had neither the time nor the items necessary to do so now.  
It would go to waste, like all the other pelts from what little game they’d found since Ostagar.

„Of course, we’re going to eat it.“  
They’d had snake and frog and grubs so far, taking what the Korcari Wilds provided. Rabbit and duck too, but those had been the exemption, not the rule.  
Once they’d even stewed some weird rodent with a flat, scaly tail, that Morrigan had called a... what had it been, beever? The tail, to Nirai's surprise, had been especially good, after being roasted over the fire and peeled. She'd never have guessed, from the looks of it.  
Yet Alistair drew the line at cat?

„We?“ Alistair squeaked, his voice reaching a new register.  
„B-but... But that’s“ He stammered, and her head jerked up.  
She didn’t need to brandish the knife at him now, as she was already glaring daggers, daring him to say disgusting.  
„That’s just not necessary.“ He finished, instead. „I... I got us some salt pork and peas and...“  
„You WHAT?“  
Of course, he’d have some money. Why wouldn't he?

„How much did you spend? How much do you have left? How... how dare you call me callous, when you could have probably paid those bandits off and prevented their deaths? You just stood there while I told them we didn’t have that kind of money, because I honestly believed we didn’t. Cause you kept it a secret! Not that I would have let them rob us, mind you, we need that money. But then you go and spend it on food, when we can just as easily catch our dinner?“  
She waved the dead cat in his face.

„Did it ever occur to you, that we might need stuff we can’t gather or snare? Like, oh, I don’t know... a tent against the rain maybe? More blankets against the cold? Flasks, so we can prepare elf root essence in advance, or bandages, or catgut – which, by the way is not an actual cat's gut, so I don’t think I can use these...“  
She threw the entrails she'd pulled free toward Fang to snatch up and continued removing the offal and ranting.  
„Some medical supplies, so we can build up an emergency stock for the next time one of us gets injured? Something... ANYTHING... that will actually keep for more than one meal?“

„It’s enough for at least three meals.“ Alistair defended himself. „Even by Warden standards.“  
„That’s even worse!“ She snapped, wondering if he meant three meals for himself, that he might be willing to share among the three of them. Or three meals each, including Morrigan.  
„Did you haggle at least, or just pay asking price?“ Her stomach churned thinking of what she could have squeezed out of all that coin if only given a chance.  
„No, don’t tell me, or I might have to throttle you. Pork and peas. Honestly! At least you didn’t buy pastries.“ She hedged. „Tell me you didn’t buy pastries.“

„No!“ Alistair swiftly assured her.  
„Anything else?“  
„Well... there was this wheel of cheese, that...“ He trailed off at her glare.  
„Come now.“ He wheedled, „It’s not like I bought the whole wheel. If you just try it, you’ll have to agree that I could not possibly have missed out on this opportunity. It’s delicious. It keeps. It goes with anything. It... it’s CHEESE. Who doesn’t love cheese?“  
„I can’t help my cooking does not agree with your sophisticated palate, but you can’t possibly claim I let you starve! Whatever is left of that money, you hand it over to me. NOW!“  
„But“  
„You want me to be in charge? Then I’m in charge of finances too. I had to be miserly all my life, so I’ll know not to squander it.“

Alistair did as he’d been told. Reluctantly, yes, but he did it without protest, dropping the coin pouch into her bloodied hand from a safe distance.  
She weighed it, did a quick estimate of the contents and tucked it away, postponing the actual counting. No need to rub salt in the wound.  
Then she set to preparing the cat once more. „I take it you never had a taste of roof rabbit before. Once the claws and head come off, you can barely tell the difference.“  
Alistair’s glare said that he knew, so it wouldn’t matter whether or not he could actually tell.

„So much for reaching civilisation.“ He muttered under his breath.  
„So much for staying civil.“ She shot back, stung. „I have ears, Alistair.“  
Ugly, broad, flat ears, but they heard just fine.  
She wondered what he’d have said if she had fetched ground rabbit instead. Well, it would happen sooner or later, and she’d just have to live with his distaste the same as he’d have to live with her dishes.  
„You do realize, that during the occupation, a cat went for little under an Orlesian Crown?“  
That was 25 Fereldan Silvers. She felt dizzy when she thought about that, tried not to think about how that still seemed a fortune. Tried not to feel the phantom Half-crown sliding down till it came to rest between her breasts. _Half a cat_ , her mind wailed at her, _his safe return was barely worth half a cat_.

Couldn’t think about that. She somehow managed to fumble from Orlesian Half-crowns to her Orlesian grandma. Cooking. Mamie’s cooking. She’d just concentrate on that.  
„They’re good eating I’ll have you know.“ She told Alistair. „It has to go into the ground overnight to soften a bit, so we’ll roast it tomorrow. I even found some wild garlic for the garnish, just like Mamie’s recipe requires. And mushrooms to go with it. Morrigan confirmed they’re not poisonous, so we can fry them with the drippings. You might be surprised to find you actually like it.“  
She just barely managed to keep the pleading tone from her voice. Stupid shem. Couldn't he see that she only wanted their best?

She wasn't a bad cook; her ingredients just were a little unusual. Nirai was determined to make an effort tomorrow and serve him the best spit roast he'd ever had. The better a job she did, the harder he would find it to complain that it was cat. Meat was a luxury. Some days, even a warm meal was a luxury. She'd just have to do her best, and convince him he was being childish.  
She pondered, if it would count as cheating, if she used some of that coin to get a little oil for basting, just to help along the flavour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Cat  
> Coins  
> Cooking
> 
> I know it is spelled beaver - but Nirai does not.
> 
> It is canon that Shianni makes stew from rats, which she calls “city rabbits”.
> 
> Headcanon:  
> Adaia Tabris used any source for meat she could get her hands on, mostly caught herself. That included: stray cats, rats, squirrel, pigeon and raven.  
> The term “roof rabbits” for cats comes from real life, so I decided to call rats “ground rabbits” to differentiate between the two sorts of “city rabbits”.  
> My information regarding cats as meat, and how much was paid for them, I found online here:  
> http://messybeast.com/eat-cats.htm
> 
> If you are interested in my meta on currency in Orlais and Ferelden, check out my other work.


	8. C 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai Tabris has a hard time opening up. Zevran did not expect things to happen like that.

Zevran had tried to ignore this. He had, for several nights in a row now. Ever since he'd first noticed. But as she shifted once more, he could no longer help it.  
„So, how is me being here helping you again?“ He demanded.  
His Warden hummed, a low, languid sound that did not fit the way she had just shrunk back to avoid contact.  
„I’m not used to sleeping alone. Having someone next to me, someone I trust... just... there. Breathing, stirring, radiating warmth... it puts me at ease.“  
„Someone else might be better suited for this, then.“ He pointed out.

She blinked drowsily. „I do trust you, Zevran. We would not be here otherwise.“  
„But you’re not at ease.“ He objected. „You squirm and shy away every time we merely brush against each other.“  
„I... wasn't aware of that. It’s just...“ The faint glow of her eyes dimmed as she averted her gaze. „What you said, when we first met... about warming my bed...“  
„I am nothing like Vaughan and his men!“ Zevran bristled.  
She sat bolt upright at that, staring. „I never“  
„You never said it outright.“ He cut her off. „Doesn't mean I didn't get the gist. You don’t want to be touched. You’ve made your point perfectly clear on more than one occasion. Silly me for thinking I had managed to do the same.“

„Zev, I...“  
She half reached out her hand, flexing her fingers, and then balling them into a fist.  
She couldn’t even bring herself to touch him, and it stung – more than he would have expected, and doubly so for following directly after the finally shortened form of his name.  
„Now, if you’ll excuse me.“  
He knelt, gathering up his bedding and manoeuvring toward the tent flap.  
„Wait!“  
The strangled, breathless way this one word was uttered gave him only a moment's pause.  
Wait for what, more veiled insults? More unspoken truths?  
„You can't leave like that!“  
„Watch me!“ He reached for the tent flap.

„You can't! Not like that. Not thinking... fuck.“  
If she wanted him to stay, she'd have to hold him back with her hands, not just words, have to prove she did not think him so low as implied by recoiling again and again.  
He could not, would not, take that anymore. He’d thought if he gave her some time to get used to him... but no. He had respected her every refusal, never followed through with any of his suggestions. Yet she could not even bring herself to touch him for fear of... what? Inflaming him?  
Did she take him for some ravaging beast, ruled by lust and unable to control his urges given the slightest taste? If she could think that of him, he was out.  
He had his pride. He had his principles. He had his pillow and his blanket.  
And he had left, before she could make up an excuse.

*****

„Would you join me in my tent for a moment, Zevran?“  
„Just a moment? Why, is there something in your tent that needs assassinating? That is my specialty, or so I'm told.“ He tried to make light of it, but he felt weary. No jokes about how he would take his time, if she were inclined to more pleasurable things. He knew it would not be welcome.  
He took sex seriously, in regards of making sure all involved were satisfied.  
She, however, took sex way too seriously, to the point where she took offence at the mere mention of it. A pity.  
And a puzzle, considering her invitation. What was she up to now?

„Well, I do need to get rid of this damn misunderstanding. And I need you for that, but I’d prefer some privacy. So?“  
He remembered her protesting him leaving, him thinking... what? What else was he supposed to think, the way she had acted? She’d better have a good explanation, not more insinuations.  
Zevran pondered her request, and his curiosity got the better of him.  
„Lead the way.“

His Warden went into the tent first, on her hands and knees. And he decidedly did not look at her posterior, to avoid being chewed out. She held open the tent flap for him, then scooted backward, putting her hand on a scroll or parchment.  
In the dim confinement, her pupils were blown wide and shone like molten gold.  
She picked the scroll up and handed it over. The way she tilted her head had the shine in one of her eyes shift colour, to an eerie red. Alistair had once referred to that effect as her „evil eye“ in jest, and received a glare that had promptly shut him up.

„Remember this?“  
Zevran knew what it was, before he even unrolled it and glimpsed the lines he’d drawn after studying her features. Was she trying to return it? That was another slap in the face.  
„It was a gift. Keep it.“ Trying to act nonchalant, he dropped the parchment between them, where it curled up as if in embarrassment. „You don’t want it anymore, burn it. What do I care.“  
„Oh, for fuck’s sake! That’s not...“ She snatched the parchment up, cradling it to her chest, and took a few steadying breaths.  
„So much for killing off misunderstandings. Seems to me they multiply like fucking rabbits. Good thing I have an assassin here to help me out.“  
He did not reward her with a smile, she had not earned that yet.

Nirai sighed. „I obviously suck at this, so let’s start over.“  
She was right about that much.  
„Let’s.“ Zevran agreed, slightly mollified. His mind had not even gone to a naughty place, considering what else she might suck. He was fully occupied with her distress at the current situation. She really did seem to care about his opinion, and about clearing up this supposed misunderstanding.  
„I do not want to return this.“ She emphasized the negation and held up the design he had drawn.  
„I deeply appreciate it. Not just as a gesture, I am actually considering to get this tattooed. Would you be up for that?“

„What?“  
This conversation had taken a turn for the unexpected.  
„You don’t have to. If you’d like, is all. I just thought I should offer, cause it’s your design, after all.“  
She was offering to let him tattoo her back? To take off her shirt and spread herself out in front of him? The thought might have been intriguing, if it had not been so damn incomprehensible in the first place.

„Why? What is this supposed to prove? Are you trying to test me, test my“  
Restraint, he’d meant to say, but he was cut off as she broke in, equally heated:  
„Test you? I'm not as twisted as the Crows, how can you even...“  
„Are you calling me twisted?“ He cut her off in return.  
„Are you saying you’re still a Crow?“ She shot back. „Because you swore you were my man, not theirs.“  
They’d been glaring daggers at each other, yet now her expression shifted, concern mingling with the anger. Did she not believe him?

„You doubt my word?“ He demanded, somewhat more quietly, but still seething with fury.  
The tent could grant only so much privacy, mainly from prying eyes, but not ears. Not if they didn’t keep down their voices.  
„No.“  
One could give their word, and mean it, and still break it, was that it? He went rigid and turned his back on her, folding his arms.  
„Just my character, then.“

He was so done with this conversation. It was not doing any good. Quite a bit of harm, though. Things had become awkward, once he’d realized she painted him with the same brush as a sexual predator. By now, they were getting downright uncomfortable.  
What was she getting at, proposing to get half naked and have his hands all over her, when she clearly didn’t want that? Was she doubting his loyalty, and trying to secure it this way? By giving in to, what she must think of as, his wanton ways?  
He heard her groan in frustration.

„Ugh, no! I’m seriously starting to question my ability to apologize, however.“  
„Lack of practice, I’d venture. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize to anyone.“  
Whenever she had told someone that she was sorry, it had been to offer commiserations, not take responsibility or blame.  
„I have to try, anyway. I can’t leave things like that between us.“ Nirai insisted.  
„Not with you thinking... fuck. I'm... so... sorry.“ She choked out.  
Zevran felt a bit of the tension leave his muscles, slightly turned his head towards her.  
Not thinking... what? It had to be obvious to her, what he must be thinking. Yet it could not have been any more obscure to him, what he was supposed to think, if it had been up to her.

She'd broken off with a „fuck“ the last time too, unwilling – or unable – to put it into words.  
The apology was new, and spoken with such sincerity. He could not help but focus on the „fuck“, though. Her favourite curse word. It saddened and infuriated him, that she connected this, an act that could cause such pleasure, with only bad experiences.  
„I trust you, Zev. I thought, the tattoo could be part of that. Part of the apology.“ She continued.  
„Why?“  
He wasn’t quite certain what he asked. Why the trust, why the apology, why the need to prove instead of just profess her trust.

„I offered that because I trust you enough to be vulnerable around you. I’d trust you with my back turned. Fuck, I trust you with my life. I don’t know how to make this any clearer to you, Zev. You are not Vaughan in this scenario.“  
„In this scenario?“ He repeated, stung, his anger flaring up once more.  
„Is this about my previous targets?“ He demanded, bringing them face to face again. Because if she had the gall to tell him he was a rapist, forcing himself on someone, she’d better have the guts to look him straight in the eye as she did so!  
„I told you, they wanted and enjoyed it. I am nothing like Vaughan! You...“

„Well, I won't be either!“ She all but screamed him down.  
„Wait, what?“  
His words were no more than a reflex, because hers shut him up proper, cutting off not only his rant but his entire thought process. How hadn’t he seen that coming? This new angle completely blindsided him.  
For quite a while they just sat there, he with his mouth agape and she with her chest heaving.  
Only the sound of her strained breathing cutting the silence into manageable moments: for each one, he went over part of their quarrel, re-evaluating what had been said and done. And in doing so, he started picking up the pieces of their friendship and attempting to put them back together.

„Are you saying that... each and every time you recoiled...?“  
„Because of you, yes, but not the way you thought. The exact opposite, in fact. I just...“  
She fidgeted. „I didn’t feel I had the right to touch you.“  
Whatever he had expected – this wasn’t it. She had thought her touch unwelcome? Had wanted to reach out, but held back?  
„And I never meant to imply...“  
She broke off again, apparently unable still to put into words what had happened to her and her loved ones.

This time, she was the one to turn away, pulling her knees close to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Not all the way away, though. Not a dismissal, merely an attempt to collect herself, to keep it together.  
They seemed to be done with the yelling for now, the crying however might still be in store.  
He hated to see her cry, because he knew she hated to be seen crying even more, and that made it damn difficult to offer comfort.

„I’m sorry.“ She repeated, barely audible. „I suck at talking about Vaughan, or sex, or anything too closely related to either of those topics. I’m sorry you got the wrong idea because of that.“  
Zevran tilted his head, wondering.  
She was worrying her lower lip with her teeth, eyes averted.  
Come to think of it, she barely ever touched anyone unless she had to – patching up a wound, dragging or pushing someone out of harm’s way.  
She was somewhat closer with Alistair, but even that consisted of hardly more than the occasional punch on the shoulder or cuff upside the head. At the utmost she'd muss up his hair to annoy him, and he'd shove her to get her to stop.

Yet she had almost constantly petted Fang, ruffling his fur, hugging his neck and placing her cheek against back or flank. Easy, unconditional affection the mabari had returned equally enthusiastic.  
He remembered, back when he had filled in her tattoo, the way she had barely leaned into his touch and then practically jerked back, looking horrified. He had put it down to her worries about the taint at the time.

„You're right about one thing, though. I can’t see things the way I did before.“ She admitted.  
„Before, I...“ She bit her lips again, looking down. „I might have thought you were propositioning me. But you were bargaining. You just said what you thought I wanted to hear. You offered to do what you thought I might want. That’s not what this is about. You swore yourself to my cause, so you owe me your loyalty. Your blade is mine. Your body is your own.“  
She paused, as if to let that sink in, then rambled on. Attempted to salvage this mess word by word, like one would untangle a yarn knot by knot.  
„Your mind... your heart... your own.“

Ah, but he wasn’t quite so sure of that anymore. His heart in particular was starting to have a mind of his own.  
„Just because I take comfort from your presence, you don’t have to“  
Tentatively, he reached out a hand and let the tips of his fingers graze her nape.  
She let out a sharp breath, eyes widening and muscles tensing. She did not shake him off, did not tell him off, though, and he knew by now that she showed little restraint in voicing her disapproval, unless she thought it made her appear weak.  
Given the way she had opened up to him right now, weakness did not seem a concern at the moment.

Encouraged, he began dragging his thumb up and down in soft strokes and her breath hitched.  
She shuddered, her eyelids fluttering shut.  
„You actually like being touched.“ He marvelled, pressing his whole palm against her neck.  
For one moment he thought he’d gone too far when she ducked her head – not leaning into the touch, but slightly away from it. Nowhere near enough to break contact, though.  
„Nothing to be ashamed of.“ He added softly.

„Zev, you... you don’t have to...“  
He shushed her, continuing his slow strokes, and she slowly unfurled from her curled-up position. Arms coming down to her sides to steady her, knees no longer drawn up to her chest, but folded sideways, pointed toward him. It felt like watching a flower blossoming, beautiful to behold. She arched her back almost catlike into the touch, her head ducking down even farther.  
The corners of his lips twitched upward when he realised that angling her head that way, she presented just another inch or so more skin above the collar of her shirt for him to reach.

He trailed his fingers down just far enough for his knuckles to brush the fabric, feeling the vertebrae beneath the tense muscles, and it earned him a low hum of approval. She definitely needed a massage, one of these days. It was past time someone paid attention to that tension, undoing the knots in her muscles and hopefully the ones on her insides, that were at least partially responsible.  
„How long have you needed this?“ He asked, and she slightly shook her head.

„I don’t“ She began, voice shaky, and he expected denial: I don’t need this. Like she didn’t need something to help her sleep, despite being weary to the bones. Instead, sounding small and rueful, she confessed: „I don’t know.“  
He kept stroking the back of her neck, watching her relax bit by bit, until suddenly she reached up and put her hand over his, holding it in place.  
„Zev.“

She had tensed up again, and he wondered where he had gone wrong.  
„I...“ Her eyes sought his, holding them for a moment, then darted nervously away, but never straying far from his face.  
„Yes?“  
„I want...“ She ducked her head again, not just averting her eyes now, but actually squeezing them shut.  
„Tell me.“ He prompted, his voice not commanding, but gentle.  
„I w-wanted...“ She was clearly struggling with this. Both her words and her breaths came stuttering.

He waited a few moments for her to continue, but didn't want to let the silence drag to long, it was the awkward kind, not the comfortable one.  
„You can tell me. Whatever it is.“  
„I... wanted... to ask...“  
He doubted that she'd had a question in mind, thought she was trying to pull back without making it too obvious. So, this time he said nothing, did nothing, to not put any more pressure on her than she already did herself.  
„If...“

„What?“ He couldn't help but prompt her again, when she started worrying her lower lip with her teeth once more. He knew her habit of chewing her lip, her nails, her knuckles, worrying herself raw. He felt the urge to reach out and touch her mouth, put his thumb on her lower lip and coax it free from this torment, before she bit down either long or hard enough to draw blood. But that seemed too intimate, too much of a risk, even with the way their boundaries had shifted.  
„If I... if it's... ngh...“

Her free hand came up to cover her mouth, while the other still rested atop his. Not in a dainty gesture either, the way a lady at court would act. No, this was literally clapping her mouth shut, fingers digging into her cheek and thumb pressing against the bridge of her nose so hard he could see her skin dimple.  
„You're not usually this shy, when speaking your mind, my dear Warden.“  
But then... maybe this was not a matter of mind, but heart. Feelings could be tricky in much more than one regard. Just feeling them could be one wild ride. Being aware of how you felt and how it influenced your behaviour was the next step. And then, the part most people had trouble with: the dreaded talk.  
There was a whole range of emotions, and you would not want to convey the wrong one.

It was easy, from a logical point of view, to differentiate between disgust and annoyance, or annoyance and anger. But feelings themselves were never that clear-cut. And even if you knew the area and intensity of the spectrum your feelings resided on, you might not know what to name them.  
„What is it you want? You don’t have to tell me, of course. You can, but only if you want.“  
She shook her head, disconsolate, and her hand slid upward, now hiding her eyes instead of her mouth.  
„What I want?“ She echoed. The inflection made him suspect tears hidden behind that hand.  
„What I want...“ She mumbled, so low he had to strain his fine, elven ears to understand. „Is not to take advantage.“

„You think I would let you?“ He challenged, but the amusement in his tone took off any edge the words might have held otherwise.  
She looked up at that, eyes wild and wet, her expression exasperation with a tinge of relief. „This is no joke, Zevran.“  
No longer Zev, he noted. Careful now.  
„And yet, it is not as severe a matter as you make it out to be.“  
The use of his full name indicated the weight she gave this concern.  
„There is no need to cast me in the role of the damsel in distress, my dear Warden, I assure you.“  
He flashed her a grin at that truly absurd image, then sobered up, lest she think he didn’t take her seriously. Neither of them was the type that needed rescue. A little reassurance however might be nice.

„I know what you do not want, now, and that is important. I’ll be sure to grant you the same courtesy. You still leave me wondering, however, in regard of the opposite.“  
She flushed.  
„Not about what I want, remember?“  
„It could be, though. I don’t know whether you lack the vocabulary or the nerve to say it out loud, but I do not think you will, either way. So how about this: Show, don't tell.“ He suggested.  
„Show me what you want.“

She gradually entwined their fingers, taking hold of his hand.  
„You really mean that?“  
He squeezed her fingers reassuringly.  
„If you promise you won’t hold back where your desires are concerned, neither will I in regard to my disapproval. If I am in any way averse to your actions, you will know immediately.“  
He put heavy emphasis on the last word.

Nirai took another deep, shuddering breath, then gave a slight tug.  
She seemed to carefully gauge his reaction as she pulled his hand down over her shoulder while scooting a bit closer, then hesitated once more.  
He tilted his head slightly, raising one eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth rising too. Questioning, encouraging.  
Her eyes roamed his face for several heartbeats, then she slowly, ever so slowly, lowered her head to his shoulder, as if waiting for him to jerk away any given moment. A few more strained breaths, and then he could feel her relaxing, practically melting against his side.

It was the last thing he’d have expected to happen, when confronting her back in his tent.  
And it was the best he’d felt in a long time, warmed by her trust. He wanted to gather her close and return that warmth in kind, feed that need that she’d finally given into. Yet he stayed his hands, fearing that if he tried to pull her in, she would pull away and withdraw into her shell again.  
Zevran was almost overwhelmed by his feelings, didn’t quite know what they were, mixed together in a jumbled mess. Fighting for his attention and against each other, one contradicting the next.

On the surface, slight amusement. This was her forbidden desire? Not some weird kink, nothing sexual at all, just... snuggling up against him? How had she managed to preserve that amount of innocence despite what Vaughan must have put her through?  
Anger, adoration, astonishment. These were swallowed up by a profound sadness, bordering sorrow in its intensity, that she did not dare ask for something so simple. And therein he saw a loss of innocence too, somehow, for she seemed unable to differentiate between affection and assault. Starved for the first, but so scared of the second that she’d shied away from close contact in any form until now.

Behind the sorrow lurked the worry.  
That it might not actually be that simple.  
That he was getting himself into something he might not know how to handle.  
That he might be in too deep already.

There was pride, that it was him she came to for comfort, not one of the women, who might be better suited, or Alistair, who was, if not better suited, her fellow Warden.  
And on the heels of that the nagging suspicion that anyone else was disqualified on account of him being the only other elf.  
Yet Zevran was barely aware of half of that. While his subconscious was flooded with feeling, his mind started strategizing.

Zevran was about to plan a full-on assault on her inhibitions. She had hidden that side of her, had done her best to seem tough, fierce, to seem... untouchable.  
He wanted her to truly be herself around him, to show him what he’d only managed to catch a glimpse of so far. For that to happen, he would have to break down the walls she’d built around her heart.  
Not batter them, obviously, or she would be up on the battlements, bringing Blight and Void down upon his head.  
More like eroding them.

He was mapping out the myriad of fleeting touches he would need to accomplish this feat. Catalogued every permutation he could come up with, which gesture to use and under what circumstances. Some were suited for a wide range of situations, while others might require a more specific scenario, or previous build-up.  
Nothing inappropriate, of course, nothing invasive. Just getting her used to the general idea of touch so she would be freer with her own.

For now, her a solid presence at his side, this was fine. Yet he could not help but want more.  
For her sake, yes, but for his own as well.  
Somehow, with her head resting on his shoulder, he had come to a conclusion.  
She’d been wrong, when she spoke earlier.  
The „not quite“ had shifted position when she had.  
He was no longer not quite sure that his heart was his own.  
In fact, he was sure that his heart was not quite his own.  
He was not head-over-heels in love or anything. But he could not deny that she had started to take hold of him.

*****

Zevran stretched languidly, fully aware of the eyes that were upon him. She had started to study him, as if he were some riddle she intended to solve.  
„What do you get out of this?“  
He stilled for a moment.  
From everyone else, he would have taken it as distrust, implying an ulterior motive. She didn't sound accusing though. Lost, more like. Like she still believed he was doing this out of some sense of obligation, maybe even pity, and desperately wanted to hear otherwise.  
„Same as you do, my dear Warden. Someone to share my tent.“  
She snorted and averted her gaze again.  
„Please. You were doing fine without me.“

He couldn't help but feel warmed by the knowledge that she did better with him than without.  
„Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the company, no? You know, back in Antiva, I used to sleep naked. The Fereldan climate does not quite agree with this habit. And it's only going to get worse. These cold, Fereldan nights will be far less inhospitable with you by my side.“  
She seemed to ponder that, and he could see the corners of her mouth twitch, a futile attempt to resist a smile.  
„Huddle together you mean?“ She reached out and placed her hand over his. „I think I'd like that.“  
Then she scooted over and actually curled up against him, resting her head on his chest.  
Zevran felt his heart might just burst from joy.

*****

„I’m not doing that to you.“

That had been the whole crux the first time around. How had she circled back to this, again?  
„To me?“ Zevran repeated. „I thought we were over this. You’re not doing anything to me.“  
Physically, at least. He’d be lying if he told himself that this wasn’t doing something to him, deep down.  
„If, on the other hand, you wanted to do something with me...“  
He smirked suggestively again.  
„Where would be the shame in that?“

„But I wasn’t thinking about that.“ She protested, face still flaming.  
„It’s not just a matter of... restraint, of boundaries. It’s like my body has gone bonkers. I didn’t even realize what it was doing, until“ Her rushed words broke off abruptly.  
„Wait.“ He had to suppress a snigger.  
„This has... never... happened before?“ He inquired, placing strong emphasis on the „never“ part. „Have you never even pleasured yourself? Not once?“  
„Zev!“ She whined, shielding her face with one hand as she prowled. „Please. Can you just... not...“

She was so worked up she couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop trembling.  
He couldn’t help thinking what it would be like, if she channelled all that pent-up energy into actually doing something about its cause. What it would be like, what she would be like, when she finally came undone.  
He knew it wouldn’t happen, though, at least not yet. She was adamant about that.  
„Now, that is a shame. A crime, even.“

It was somehow both endearing and exasperating, how shy she got about these things. Like the way she used „fuck“ in every other sentence, yet did not seem able to imagine herself actually being fucked. Not even by her own fingers, it appeared.  
„My dear, chaste warden.“ He couldn’t help the teasing undertones in his voice.  
„Don’t tell me you were brought up to think of self-pleasure as something dirty. There’s nothing to be disgusted about, I assure you.“  
„It’s not that, either.“ She mumbled.

Zevran waited patiently for her to explain. By now, he had a better handle on when to coax her, and when he simply needed to let her gather her thoughts.  
„I'm not opposed to sex in general, I guess. I’ve never given it much consideration, to be honest. I never had the urge or opportunity... you know. And I don't want it to mess things up, when I finally feel like I'm... like we’re... in a good place. We've talked about stuff, and we were alright with how things stood and where we were headed. I don’t need all this confusion and guilt and... gahhhh. It’s just... I can’t help it! I hate this! I hate myself for... ugh, I don’t know. I don’t know! Not being in control, I guess.“

And yet, she had made so sure to not pressure him into anything he might not want, had not sought to control him. That struck a different chord inside him, a warm, low thrum inside his belly that made him want to comfort her so badly he feared his heart couldn’t take it. This chord was part of a barely familiar melody, tantalizing and threatening in equal measure.

„You can't control this sort of thing any more than you can control your heartbeat, my dear Warden. You’re being too hard on yourself.“ He declared, then smirked again.  
„And while we’re on the subject of being hard... you were not disgusted by my morning glory, were you?“  
„We’ve been over this, Zev.“ She sounded exasperated, echoing his sentiment from before.  
„I’m not disgusted with you, especially not for that, all right?“

His smirk blossomed into a smile as he cast out the lure. „Why not?“  
„Cause you can’t help that.“ She blurted, biting. He could see things clicking into place in her head.  
„Alright, fine.“ She sighed. „Point taken.“  
Yet she still looked miserably uncomfortable, and he reached for her cheek, tracing the tattooed lines with his thumb.  
„Nothing to be disgusted or ashamed about.“ He assured her once more.  
„I guess we’ll have to reiterate that fact until it’s ingrained in your heart, not just your head.“  
She hummed in agreement and leaned slightly into his touch.

„If you don't mind me asking...“ He started, genuinely curious.  
„Hm?“  
„If you did not intend to take care of yourself... what exactly was it you were doing?“  
The question hung between them in the silence a few heartbeats. Then she sighed.  
„If you really want to know. Not like this can get any more fucking embarrassing.“  
Yet she halted, averted her gaze.  
„When I felt myself... leaking...“ She cleared her throat.  
„I was checking to see if I was finally bleeding.“

The motion of his thumb on her cheek stopped. His hand swept underneath her chin to raise her face and catch her gaze. His eyes were blazing, his voice a low rumble.  
„If you hadn't already killed him, I'd make sure...“  
„What? NO! I said finally, because... I haven't. Yet. Not once. Not ever, maybe. I think...“  
She gulped.  
„Think there's something wrong. It was actually a relief when Alistair said that Grey Wardens are likely to be infertile. At least then, it won't be my fault, if... well.“

Zevran didn't know what to say, so for once, he said nothing.  
„Ugh.“  
Again, she made that sound of disgust. Nirai shook herself, as if she could shake off her thoughts that way.  
„I think I need a bath.“  
„Shall I scrub your back?“ He proposed, falling back onto their familiar rhythm of him teasing, and her deflecting.  
She hesitated, probably trying to come up with a good line, and utterly surprised him with a simple: „Sure. Why not.“

„Are you serious? Because if you are not, your jest is ill-humoured indeed. Why, I might never recover from the anguish over this missed opportunity.“  
His tone was flippant, but he had to make sure. They locked gazes, and there was no hint of mischief in her eyes.  
„Dead serious. Got any rosewater? I’d like to get started on that tattoo.“

She washed while he went back to camp to gather a few things. When he returned, she was up to her chin in the pond, the water dark enough at night to completely hide her nudity from sight.  
„Would you turn your back for a moment?“  
She sounded embarrassed at her request.  
„Of course, my dear Warden.“ He simply agreed, putting down the things he’d gathered on the shore and turning, so he faced away from her.  
„I brought you some fresh garments.“ He pointed out.  
„Thanks, Zev.“

He heard her wade to the shore, followed by a gasp.  
„You went through my undergarments?“  
Zevran could not help the peal of laughter bursting free.  
„Well, how else was I supposed to fetch you some? I thought you might want them, considering...“  
„Fair point.“  
He picked up on the rustle of cloth as she shimmied into them. Then splashing, as she once more waded out into the water.  
„Alright, you can come in, now.“

Zevran took off his shirt, but kept on his britches. He merely rolled up the hem a bit, then followed her into the pond with the basket of bathing utensils in hand. He felt his throat go slightly dry when he saw that she had not put on anything but her underwear, her toned legs visible from the knee upward. His eyes followed them past the curve of her buttocks to her back, the part that needed his immediate attention.  
When he saw the thin scar stretching across it, he immediately knew it was not from battle. Too straight, almost surgical in its precision. His index finger followed it along her spine, ghosting over the skin. She immediately broke out in gooseflesh, and he pulled back.  
„Vaughan?“

He slung the handle of the basket over his left arm, so it came to rest in the crook of his elbow, then took out some slightly abrasive soap and a soft-bristled brush. Time to get rid of any sweat, grime and dead skin.  
„I... had to stall. Buy some time.“  
„With your body.“ He whispered, rubbing the soap onto her wet back with deliberate, even strokes of the brush. Once he was satisfied with his work, he took a washcloth from the basket, dunked it in the pond and started to wipe away the suds. If only he could rid her of bad memories as easily as that.

If he didn't sound horrified, it was because he’d grown up among bodies bought and sold, and the cutting edge of that particular dread had worn off. It happened.  
There was a dull anger left, though, that it had happened to her.  
Despite his best efforts, some of the sudsy water trailed down low enough to soak into her fresh underwear, leaving a damp spot clinging to her behind.  
Zevran swallowed slightly, as he felt his body responding. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon have a damp spot clinging to his front, possibly jeopardizing their new-found peace of mind.

„With my blood.“ She amended.  
„I let him think he'd won. And... then I took my time to drive home how wrong he was.“  
„Good.“ He conceded, and they both kept silent a while as he continued to wipe her down. He didn’t usually condone cruelty, but he loathed this man he’d never known with a savage, irrational intensity.  
„Before... when you said... when you thought... he didn't. He wanted to, but he didn't get to me like that. Just... here.“  
She placed one hand against her temple, the other over her heart.

Zevran felt his throat close up. He carefully picked two more items from the small basket.  
A bottle of rosewater that he slid into his belt, and a dry washcloth that he slung over his shoulder, accompanying the wet one on the other.  
Then, to have both hands free, he carefully put down the basket on the ponds surface, where it floated.  
It would dry. Brasca. It could sink, for all he cared.

He slid his arms around her shoulders in a comforting gesture.  
Zevran could feel her naked skin against his, and made sure that contact was well above the swell of her breasts, just in case. Even so, his heart raced as they stood like that, his chest flush against her back. She rested her hands on his arms, holding them in place.  
His chin somehow fit right in the crook of her neck, and he pressed a kiss against her temple. Nothing more than a short, dry peck, but with enough sentiment behind it to have him question his own sanity. What was he getting himself into?

„How about we progress to the more pleasant part of the evening.“ He suggested, letting go only reluctantly.  
He wet the first washcloth again and wiped down her back once more to get off the rest of the suds, then padded her dry with the second.  
Finally, he pulled the flask from his belt and uncorked it, trickling a fair amount of the liquid it contained in between her shoulder blades.  
It elicited a giggle both delighted and delightful.  
„Andraste, that tickles.“

She hedged.  
„That... that smells...“  
More giggles, this time clearly amused, as he started to rub his hands over her back in circles, working the rose water into her skin.  
„You actually weren’t joking. I thought you were, just to get a rise out of Alistair.“  
„My dear, I never jest about skin care. If your new tattoo were to get inflamed, Wynne would have my hide for it.“  
She sobered up a little. „That must have been expensive. I’ll pay you back.“  
„Your trust is reward enough, my dear Warden.“

*****

A choice.  
Why then did this feel like getting kicked to the curb?  
His choice, she'd said. He’d better make an informed one, then.

„You want me gone?“ He asked flatly, not sure what he’d expected.  
This had been too good to be true. Too good to last.  
Maybe, now that the Crows had finally attacked, she saw him no longer for the use he offered, but the risk he posed.  
Yet he had thought, had dared to hope, that she saw more than just pros and cons in him.  
A person.  
A companion.  
A chance at something good.

He half thought she might deflect again, repeat her litany that this was not about what she wanted. Yet she never ceased to surprise him, not even now.  
„I want you free!“  
She blazed, stepping close.  
Her hand still outstretched, almost as if to force the purse on him.  
„I want you safe!“  
She actually burst into tears.  
For him. When was the last time someone had cried not because of, but for him?  
„I want you.“

That last declaration was less ferocious, but not lacking conviction, her voice raw with emotion.  
It took him a moment to process that, and his hand reached out haltingly toward hers.  
He could see her flinch, try as she might to suppress it.  
Then his fingers closed round her wrist and he yanked her forward, the coin pouch dropping to the ground ignored.

She hated to be seen crying, he knew, and cradled her in his arms so she could hide her face against his shoulder, hands stroking her hair and back.  
„I want you.“ She repeated, sobbing, clinging to him with such force he could barely believe she’d actually offered to let him leave.  
This felt like a drowning person holding on to flotsam, fearing to go under if they let go.  
„Fuck, but I want you. I want you so bad, Zev.“

Overwhelmed, he whispered Antivan endearments to her, mi cielo, mi vida, mi amor.  
And they came so much easier knowing he risked little by pouring out his heart in a foreign language.  
„My Warden.“ And that sounded, tasted... possessive, in a way it never had before.  
„My dear, dear Warden. Don't cry, corazon. I got you.“  
And even though the better answer to „I want you“ would have probably been „You got me“, he could feel her starting to calm down.  
He kept rubbing soothing circles into her back, repeating his sentiment.  
„I got you, my Warden.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Communication  
> Closeness  
> Choice
> 
> I know Zevran actually says “Amora” in canon, but I changed that to “mi amor” so I could use some spanish as antivan endearments.  
> Mi cielo: My sky/heaven  
> Mi vida: My life  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Corazon: Sweetheart
> 
> The tattoo design mentioned shows the head of a wolf. I drew it myself and used it as the avatar for my account. It might seem weird, that my avatar picture is a wolf, considering my username, but I picked it to represent my f!Tabris, since most of the fics I post are centered around her (for now).  
> If you are familiar with the City Elf Tattoo options, you might recognize that the Wolf is based upon her facial tattoo


	9. D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's hard to lose a dream you never thought you'd see fulfilled in the first place

“Remember when you found us, after Ostagar? I said you could tag along, as long as you made yourself useful,” Nirai gave a barely audible chuckle. “That’s a given. There’s more to it, though.” She was tearing up, but not quite crying yet. She had to get through this, had to let him know. “I always wanted a mabari. But I grew up realizing it just couldn’t be. You’re a little girl’s prayer answered, long after I stopped believing. And I couldn’t have asked for a better companion,” her already strained voice almost gave way.

The tears started flowing now, yet she kept talking, not acknowledging them. If she did, she might break down, choking on her grief. “If I could cure you by finding some flower, I would set out and get it, you know I would. If there was something… anything…” Not even Wynne knew what to do, not this time. She could heal any wound, but this sickness… Nirai took a deep, shuddering breath, hugging Fang tight despite Wynne’s warning to stay away, lest she catch it herself.

Even if the rabies had not changed his behaviour, there would not have been the usual enthusiasm, his whole behind making up for the lack of tail for wagging. Nirai had taken great care not to get caught herself in the Glyph of Paralysis inscribed on the ground, as she‘d knelt down and leaned in close for the goodbye. “But there’s nothing I can do now. Nothing… but making it as quick and painless as I can.”

She drew the Fang of Fen’Harel from its sheath and coated the blade with the poison Zevran had given her. It was only fitting that Fang should die not only by her hand, but by her hand wielding the dagger he was named after. “It has to be me, because you’re my mabari.” She put the blade to his throat and had to marshal all her strength to keep herself from shaking. “You wouldn’t be here, if it wasn’t for me. And I — won’t be the same without you.”

A quick, shallow cut, and it was done. It didn’t even draw much blood, but the poison would work its way through his body all the same. She put the dagger aside and kept petting Fang. One hand was scratching him behind the ears, the other stroking his massive chest, feeling it rise and fall; trying to divine the heart beating underneath the fur, strong and sure, but already slowing. His snarl faded, his eyes drooped, and his whole body, up until now taut as a bowstring, slackened.

She was still rubbing her hand in circles over his chest, trying to make out a last heartbeat, a last breath. But the only thing that held his body upright now was the glyph, as it prevented him from real movement. She wrapped her arms around his neck, cradling the head, and murmured, “Jowan?” Instead of just letting it slump to the floor, she guided the body so its head came to rest in her lap, as Jowan finally ended the spell. She wanted to scream and howl and curse, yet her throat was so tight, it was impossible for a sound that enormous to get out; all she managed was a thin, high, desperate wail before starting to bawl, bent over by grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Dog  
> Death  
> Despair
> 
> You might have guessed the “Death” part, considering the fic came with the “Major Character Death” warning. You might not have guessed who’d be the major character, though. Don’t fight me on this, the dog is a companion, that counts!
> 
> I know this cannot happen in-game, but the moment I saw a rabid werewolf, my brain went: oh no...  
> Nirai relied on her mabari way too much, because it felt safer to interact with him than people in certain areas.  
> Sharing secrets – it’s not like he could tell anyone.  
> Sharing affection – completely innocent, no expectations.  
> Sharing a sleeping space – she used to share a bed with her cousins, and has trouble sleeping on her own. No misunderstandings, no ulterior motives.  
> It hurt to take him away for the sake of character development. But so long as she had Fang, she was not forced to cope with the trauma inflicted by Vaughan, because she simply projected all her emotional needs on the mabari.
> 
> I hope you can forgive me for doing that to Fang.  
> Maybe the resulting romance between Nirai and Zevran will be a bit of a consolation.


	10. E 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some insecurity regarding ears and elfy elfs and one not-so-elfy elf.

She was a far cry from being as beautiful as her mamae. She wasn't pretty either.  
Growing up she’d had to endure her fair share of jeers and taunts from a young age, some kids even going so far as to call her shem-spawn because of her ears and nose. Short-ear was the usual insult, if you had human ancestry and looked human yourself. She wasn't like that, her ears weren't short, just... wrong. And when the taunts started, she’d decided to stop them the only way she could think of at the time. She still had a nick in her left ear from that day; using a knife to try and adjust it to a preferable shape will do that to you. It had hurt badly, bled worse, and earned her the most thorough scolding of her life up to then.  
Ever since she knew that one could be either an elf, or an elf-blooded human. But in no way could one be a human-blooded elf. She had been absurdly glad to hear that this was simply not possible, while she should have been horrified that humans were dominant even in terms of offspring.

Even Alarith had given her a good dressing down when he’d heard, explaining the term „knife-ear“: that it was used on elves by shemlen to mark them as property, no better than animals. It had been hard to wrap her mind around a person belonging not with, but to another person; not in the sense of relationship, but ownership. It had been harder still to imagine Alarith like that, even after he’d pulled back his usually messy hair to let her see his mutilated ears as evidence of his tale. If she’d been bold enough to put a knife to her own ears, he’d figured she could handle seeing what the shem’s knives had done to his, and hoped the display would deter her from any further experiments. No wonder he kept them covered while most elves in the Alienage wore their hair pulled back in some way, or simply tucked behind the ears to emphasize them.

There were so many important aspects concerning ears that might seem trivial to anyone but an elf – some of them even believed to indicate personality traits. Say, short ears, short temper.  
There was the size, for a start.  
The angle, of course. Not just the way the ears angled outwards – because flattening the ears signalled fear or aggression, and flat-ears were deemed unflattering among elves, just as protruding ears were among humans – but upwards as well, though the latter was harder to pinpoint; all in all it depended on a harmonic context between eye level, ear shape and jaw line.  
The four basic variations of tips, which were mostly up to personal preference: sharp, slender, wide and the unpopular rounded one.  
Then the way the ear curved towards the tip – straight ears were said to indicate a straight (if stern) character, while a downward bent tip was considered dubious and undesirable.  
A dented, almost zigzagging line, where the ear slightly folded in on itself, meant the person would most likely be shy and thoughtful. Whereas too pronounced a curve, the tip curling upwards, was sign of a more feisty and fickle nature.  
The length had to be in due proportion to width (though there was some leeway), the tip sufficiently pointy, the earlobe small and preferably attached.

Her ears were wrong in so many ways; decently sized, but badly formed. They were too broad, too round along the tip and the underside, almost as if someone had grabbed a shemlen by the ear and pulled until it stretched. They were practically clinging to her head, too close to the skull; and too high to properly align with her wide jaw at that.  
The first time she had been called a „dirty flat-ear“ she had thought she’d been insulted for her looks, not her behaviour. She should have known better by then, as „knife-ear“ didn’t have anything to do with the shape of elven ears either. But only after asking her mamae she understood that they were talking about a different kind of dirty, and about not behaving like a proper elf.

Her ears were still distinctive enough to be called „knife-ear“ by shems, though they would’ve probably done so anyway; and most shemlen using this racial slur probably did so without even knowing why the term was so insulting.  
There was more to being an elf after all than just the ears. One might hide those, and the typically lanky body, under a cloak to try and pass as a human. It was the eyes that gave an elf away: big, glowing in the dark, and in beautiful, bright shades you just didn’t find among shemlen.  
Hers were shaped like her mamae’s, slanting slightly upward. And there was even a bit of Mamae’s blazing gold and orange among the pale blue she had from Babae. Soris had likened them to a sunset, once, and she’d held that compliment dear, for those were hard to come by where her looks were concerned.  
The red, that was so prominent among her family, her cousins’ hair ranging from Nessa’s honey blonde, over Shianni’s vivid copper and Soris' deep red, to Sharai’s auburn, was hidden only in the highlights of her own curls. A red so dark it appeared almost black, like overripe cherries.

Aside from colour, her eyes and hair were like Adaia’s, and the features she was most proud of.  
The rest, however?  
She had inherited Adaia’s long, pointed nose as well, though hers was decidedly more hooked – looking almost human, that hump implying an indentation at the base that wasn't truly there – and quite crooked at that (mostly her own fault, what with getting it broken on more than one occasion).  
She had her babae’s low hairline, broad chin and bushy eyebrows.  
All of that was topped off with a slightly jutting jaw all her own, and rather large teeth that made her shy with her smiles. In combination with her unfortunate, flat ears, this gave her a somewhat determined look of restrained anger, bordering on a pout.

When people had said, she looked like her parents, she’d guessed that it was somewhat true. But, given her ears, that she had missed out on the most important part. She sometimes wondered how much of her looks came from her babae’s side of the family, from people she had never seen and couldn’t compare herself to. She just knew that in comparison to her mamae and mamie, or her cousins, or many other elves at that, she fell flat, being below average at best. Probably worse. On their own – aside from her stupid ears of course – none of her features, not even her shem nose, would have been too bad. But added up the overall picture was not what an elf should look like.

She was aware of that more than ever when they finally happened among the Dalish. It wasn't just about looks, though. She was a City Elf, a flat-ear who'd lived among humans. And now travelled among humans. Why, in the eyes of these elves that practically made her a shem herself.  
The adults eyed her with thinly veiled distrust or outright disgust, the children were shushed and squirreled away. A few took to following her at a safe distance as she made her way through the camp though, ogling her like some curiosity. One boy finally screwed up his courage enough to blurt: „What do those lines on your face mean? Are you marked for Fen’Harel?“  
„Don't be stupid, there is no vallaslin for Fen’Harel.“ A girl a few years his senior scolded. „She's a flat-ear, they don't even have vallaslin. Those marks don't mean anything.“  
It was Zevran, who drew her out of her shell later that evening – or tried to, at least – asking:  
„So, what does your tattoo mean?“  
„You heard them. It’s not a vallaslin. It doesn’t mean anything.“ Nirai deflected. But Zevran was not so easily fooled.  
„It does to you.“  
It took losing part of it, along with half of her right cheek, to admit it.

Morrigan's quick intervention, combined with the glamour that had allowed her passage through the magical barrier, had saved her life, most likely. She’d looked like a werewolf at the time – a bit taller than she actually was – and the claws meant to rip out her throat had aimed too high. They'd partially hit her jaw instead, slashing her open down to the bone, damaging blood vessels that were not quite as large or important as the carotid. She’d have bled out faster otherwise, but the misguided trajectory of the attack had bought her a few precious moments. Not enough to wait for Wynne, who was by far the better healer, but she could count herself lucky to be alive at all.

The results of Morrigan’s effort showed the limitations of a mere mage compared to a medium. The difference between a spell from the school of creation and the art of spirit healing.  
Where a spirit healer practically remade the body, as if calling upon a fade echo from right before the injury and melding the body to that memory, all any other mage could do, was to encourage the body’s natural responses to speed up unnaturally.  
Magic had knit her cheek back together, but not regrown the flesh ripped out of it; the scar tissue sunken where the gashes had been. She could feel that beneath her fingers. Her lacerated ear had not been missing a part, but the wound had gaped. With the rip not sutured closed, it had simply healed that way, new skin growing along the edges, leaving a notable notch.

When the battle was won, the curse broken, and they opted to make camp in the now empty ruins, she decided to confront the – by now, most definitely, ugly – truth. She asked to borrow Morrigan's mirror. The one she'd gifted the witch because it had reminded her of the one she'd been told Flemeth broke long ago. She somehow managed to keep her hands from shaking, as she took it, mumbling her thanks. It took her a few heartbeats to screw up her courage. Then she lifted the mirror and slowly turned it around, facing the polished surface. She studied her reflection in silence.  
The scars trailing down her cheeks, disrupting the pattern of her tattoo. The frazzled ear, uglier than ever. At least it somewhat matched that nick in her left ear, now. Albeit in an unbalanced, lopsided way. Her hand came up to cover the worst of it. Not the ear, she found herself realizing, surprised. No, that wasn’t the worst part.

She handed back the mirror.  
„You fixed quite a lot of damage there. Thank you.“  
„’tis unfortunate that I also did some damage in the process. Once you were healed, there was nothing more to be done. Nothing to improve upon.“  
„You risked life and limb to come to my aid, Morrigan. Overextending yourself like that... even with the lyrium you had... I won’t forget it. There is no need for regret nor apologies. These are simply some flaws to add to my ever-growing collection. It’s not like I was much to look at before.“  
„I rather enjoy the view.“ Zevran told her, not for the first time. „If there is something I don’t like about those scars, it is the pain they represent. But that ragged, dangerous look? You’ve got the spunk to back that up, and then some.“  
Dangerous. She liked being thought of that way. Dangerous beat defenceless every day, if you asked her. It just got you into a different sort of trouble.  
 _I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting_ , she could hear his voice echo from her memory. That no longer troubled her.

She couldn’t help her hand reaching up over and over the following day, fingers trailing along the scars.  
„How does it feel?“ Zevran inquired. „Does it pain you? Physically, I mean.“  
„Hm?“  
She realized what she’d been doing and rubbed her cheek some more, this time not absentmindedly, but acutely aware of how embarrassed she was at being caught.  
„No, nothing like that. A bit odd, maybe, the muscles seem... weakened, somehow. But no pain.“  
„Well, you are missing part of these muscles, so I guess that is only to expect. How do you feel, if I may ask?“  
She pondered that question, and her answer, only for a moment.  
„Incomplete.“

He gave a slight chuckle. „No need to take things this literal. I know when not to pry.“  
„No, I mean…“  
How to explain this?  
„You were right, you know. It does mean something to me. And now part of it is missing. It just feels off, more than the physical sensation ever could.“  
Zevran smiled.  
„I guess, our Witch of the Wilds was wrong. There is something left to improve upon, if you don't mind a little pain. It hurts more with scar tissue, I'm told.“  
„I don't mind. Would you?“  
„Mind inflicting pain on you, my dear Warden? Indeed. I will do so, however, if it is your wish. If all that's needed is a little ink to restore these lines and your peace of mind, you are welcome to my skills and service.“  
She'd gladly taken him up on his offer.

As he filled in her tattoo, she realized she was warming toward this man, who called her beautiful in spite of her ugly ears. She could believe that there was no ulterior motive behind his words, for she had told him nothing would come of it, and he'd never crossed the line from talking to something tangible.  
So much for short ears indicating a short temper. Zevran had been nothing but respectful of her boundaries and patient with her questions regarding his past and morals.  
Sticking needles into her skin was the most intimate they'd been so far; he’d never even gotten close to touching her until now. And she'd been fine with that.

She could even believe he meant it, calling her beautiful, because he’d been raised in a brothel instead of an Alienage, elven ideals of beauty not hammered home from an early age. He'd lauded several of her body parts. But he'd never mentioned her ears, not even in a slightly disparaging manner, because he probably didn't care.  
He was attracted to humans as well as elves, no matter the ears. And men as well as women, regardless of height. He was not deterred by old age either, given the way he had complimented Wynne's bosom, though that might have been more to throw her off than gain her favour.  
He might mean it, but it might mean nothing, anyway.  
He’d flirted with all of the party members, except Sten and Shale, which meant most everyone with a pulse. That she was no exception hardly made her special.

But as she found herself leaning into his touch, as he was finished and about to withdraw...  
As she realized she craved some sort of affection – not love, neither the emotional nor the physical kind, just... something, some form of kindness to balance out the harsh reality – she jerked back almost violently, telling herself: _No, you can’t._  
He might not want that kind of intimacy, same as she did not want the other, and she was not going to abuse her position of power.

She’d held herself back from touching people, lest they get the wrong idea, read more into her gestures than she wanted to convey, ever since the incident. Vaughan’s assault had twisted her mind and tarnished her soul. Turned her from a girl who’d shared her bed with one or more of her cousins every night, tangled tight, to a woman who refused to share even her tent with anyone but her dog. Who turned toward an animal for warmth because that contact was pure and innocent. Impossible to turn on her because its recipient misinterpreted her intent.  
Now she found she wanted that easy, unassuming kind of touch she’d shared with her family from Zevran, for fucks sake. He was the last person she could ever ask for that. All he’d ever offered her, his loyalty, his skills, his body, had been offered from a position of near certain doom. A contract made under duress was hardly binding.

She demanded his loyalty, because she needed it. Needed every capable fighter she could get to battle the Blight.  
She’d not ask for his affection, simply because she wanted it, not when he might give it to her only because she was the thing standing between him and death by his former brethren.  
She would not force herself upon him in any way – that would be too much like what Vaughan had done, even without the sexual aspect.  
There was no use pretending that she’d managed to keep her distance on an emotional level.  
Somehow, these feelings had sneaked up on her, and she was actually fond of Zevran, despite his constant flirtations.

His unexpected kindness had drawn her in, a concern not just for her and her wellbeing – because that aligned with his self-interest of staying on her good side and under her protection – but others as well. He tended to root for the underdog, suggesting to pick the side of those who’d been wronged and were in desperate need of support.  
Like the mages in the Circle, who'd been promised, then denied, Templar protection.  
While Alistair had been tempted to fall back on his Templar training, though he claimed not to like the idea, Zevran had pleaded for mercy. He had risked her disapproval mere days after being recruited, not knowing her stand on magic, or most other things. To stand up for people he'd never met before. Going against his own interests up to a point.

He might have folded, backed down if she disagreed, but his instincts had aligned with her own. Despite the way he teased Wynne, whenever she brought up the topic, Zevran had morals.  
He'd just been pressured by the crows to abandon them.  
 _We're good for each other, I guess._  
Yet she would go on as she had so far, keeping Zevran at arm’s length where physical contact was concerned. For his own sake, she had to keep this growing emotional attachment restricted to a purely emotional aspect.  
Nirai sighed. This would be so much easier, if only he’d insulted her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Ears  
> Elves  
> Emotion
> 
> Again; Shoutout to this Blog for the use of the term “short-ear”:  
> https://theshadowdreams-blog.tumblr.com/post/123561131172/city-elven-vocabulary
> 
> If you want to check out my Elf Ear meta, look for my other works.


	11. E 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I figured, Nirai would not have pressed Zevran about whether or not the earring had meaning. She'd simply have flown off the handle, because she hates her ears.

„Andraste’s ass, Zev, my ears are ugly enough as is, no need to draw attention to them!“ She’d snapped, and he’d retorted: „You don’t want the earring? You don’t get the earring. Very simple.“  
It had taken some time for her to calm down and think things over.  
„I’m sorry about the way I acted before. When you offered me that earring, I mean. My ears are… a bit of a touchy subject, if you had not noticed. But that earring meant something to you, and to give it to me… that was not just meant to be a gift, was it? A… token of affection, maybe?“

Zevran shrugged, silent.  
„Alright, time to be candid then.“ She took a deep breath.  
„I don’t… want you to sleep in my bed anymore.“  
The way he turned his head away at that, the slight frown creasing his brow, were the hints she needed to press on. „I want you to sleep in ours.“  
Damn, she could not remember the last time she’d been this nervous, now that his eyes were back on her.

„I want to kiss you.“ She confessed. „I might be bad at it. You don’t have to say yes, if you don’t want“  
He shut her up with a kiss. Just a brief brush of his lips against hers, but it was enough to take her words and her breath away. She held on to his shoulders for support, feeling her legs turn wobbly. As he drew back, he only did so by tilting his head, their foreheads still touching.  
She let her eyes drift shut. Even if she could no longer feel his lips on hers, his breath lingered, ghosting over her skin like a caress.  
„Why wouldn’t I want you?“

„Because I messed up and hurt you. Not just once, but several times.“  
It all broke out of her, all at once.  
„Because I’m messed up and might hurt you again. Because killing an Archdemon kills the Warden that does it, and I don’t want to leave you, but I might not have a choice.“  
She could sense the anguish that knowledge caused him, could feel it in the way his shoulders tensed beneath her hands, in the way he pulled back from her.  
„I understand if this is too much to ask. A one in two chance of survival…“

„Don’t.“  
This time he put his fingertips on her mouth to silence her.  
„If I have to drag Jowan and Avernus into battle to improve your chances, I will do so, and the Warden’s reputation be damned.“  
He cupped her face with both hands, capturing her gaze.  
„You made rather clear already that you wanted me to stay. That's all I asked. To be part of your life, to be by your side, for as long as you would have me.“ He declared.  
"I’d prefer you stay alive, my dear, but I am not going to desert you now because of the possibility of losing you later.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Earring
> 
> I figured, since Nirai already declared that she wants Zevran, he knows she is comitted to him, even if neither of them has used the word "love" so far. I have a scene planned for that moment.
> 
> edited to add:  
> Zevran called her "mi amor" before, but since it is Antivan, Nirai does not know the meaning. So far she has not asked, only guessed.


	12. F

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what to do, when your first attempt at wooing someone fails? Try again, of course.

„You want me to give her flowers? Again?“   
„Not just any flowers.“ Leliana stated cryptically. „Now, why do you like her? What caught your attention?“   
„Well, I… she’s funny. When she wants to be. She gets my humour, I guess.“   
„Hm, not sure how to convey that… what else?“   
„She’s tough. She’s been through so much shit, and she doesn’t even complain.“   
Leliana picked a few rather unremarkable flowers at that, the dark purple of a fresh bruise, with a hint of blood red at the top of their petals. She handed them to him, eyes wandering, then set out in a different direction.  
„Go on.“

„She’s strong. Not just the knock-you-flat-on-your-ass kind of strength, but the get-you-back-on-your-feet kind of strength, you know? She didn’t take any shit from me, or let me mope about, after…“  
„Mhm.“ Leliana just let him talk, looking around while they strolled through the underbrush. There were loads of flowers, big ones, small ones, white or colourful, all kinds of flowers.  
But she ignored most of them, obviously waiting for something to inspire her. So, he went on:  
„She wasn’t cruel about it, though. A bit… harsh maybe, but not the way she said things, just the way she saw them. She’s honest. Even when she knows I might get mad at her for pointing out stuff I don’t want to hear. She’s fierce, but she’s also kind. She was kind to that girl from Redcliffe, in spite of everything. She cares about people, more than she lets on. And she doesn’t like leaving someone behind if she can help it. You saw, how she was, when Zevran...“

Again, silence fell, but for the sound of their feet on the ground.   
Leliana picked out another sort of flower, this one with a long, slender stalk covered in countless purple blossoms in a way that made it look almost like a stake. Then a third, heart-shaped this time, red except for the weird little tail-thingy on top.   
Then something that looked more like a weed than a flower, even though the way the three-pronged leaves changed from green to lilac towards the edges had a certain appeal. She handed them over one by one, until he had his hands full.

Nirai had not left him behind, either, though Maker knew he hadn’t made it easy on her. He had been so stubborn in his attempt to cling to the vision of Goldanna, but she had been even more so, ripping it away from him. In that instant, he had almost hated her, yet somehow by now he loved her all the more for it.   
„She’s hard-headed.“ Alistair concluded, not quite sure what more to say. „I think she’d have dragged me out of the Fade kicking and screaming, if I hadn’t come to my senses.“

And boy, had he come to his senses. How could he not have noticed all this stuff about her before? How had it taken him so long to gather his courage, letting Zevran work his sleazy charm all the while?  
Leliana picked out one more plant, another shrub, with leaves tinted a modest red. Neither as bright nor as dark as the flowers she’d picked before.   
Then she took the others back from him, arranging them in a bouquet.  
„Let’s see… we have Embrium, Blood Lotus, Elfroot…“

„She didn’t want the enchanted, everlasting rose, what makes you think she’ll want these?“ Alistair interrupted.   
„Deathroot and Spindleweed.“ Leliana finished, unperturbed. „They may not be as magical as the rose, but they’re useful.“   
„Oh, so we’re getting her ingredients? You should have said so in the first place. How about we sprinkle it with some Lyrium dust and put a Deep Mushroom on top, then?“   
Leliana gave him a glare that quite clearly said: You want my help or not?!   
She almost shoved the flowers in his face.   
„Useful as in conveying your sentiment, you oaf. Surely you’ve realized where you went wrong?“

Alistair leaned back, alarmed, taking the flower arrangement before she could whack him over the head with it in exasperation.  
„Um, actually, that kind of is why I needed help in the first place.“   
„You called her beautiful, and she didn’t believe you, because she does not believe it herself. She thinks of it as something superficial men say to get girls to like them. It’s the same with the rose, in a way. It’s just something men do. Roses, how romantic.“   
„But they are! Aren’t they?“ Alistair protested.   
„Exactly. Which makes them generic.“

„Generic? It’s a magical rose!“ He grew annoyed. „Who wouldn’t want a magical rose?“   
„And who would want to be compared to one?“ Leliana countered. „A priceless, perfect thing, unchanging. Never losing any of its beauty. That’s a lot to put on a person, you know.“   
„Wha… but… I didn’t mean it like THAT!“ He defended himself, throwing his hands up in agitation. „What is it with you two? It's like you're deliberately misunderstanding me! Is there some sort of translation manual or something I haven't read? A guide to non-offensive floral arrangements? How to pick her a flower that doesn't suggest you just want to pick her flower?“

Leliana put a calming hand on his shoulder.   
„Careful.“ She warned, gesturing toward the bouquet. „Don't drop these.“   
And he steadied his grip, ceasing his gesturing.  
Alistair drew a deep breath he let out as a groan.   
„I said all the wrong things, didn’t I?“   
„I know you’ve put thought into your words, Alistair, and heart as well. But they were not right for her. This time, you need to put some thought into your gesture.“   
„More flowers.“ He repeated. „I still don’t see the difference.“   
„Right.“ She huffed.

„Now listen. Blood Lotus. It is resilient like her, for it can survive most any place.   
Death root. It looks almost fragile, doesn’t it? Yet it is dangerous, deadly even. She had her share of being underestimated, of being thought defenceless because she’s an elf and they’re not supposed to carry weapons. She just hid them, like the poison hidden inside this plant. The elfroot is for her softer side. She doesn’t just know how to hurt, but how to heal. She takes care of people. Embrium is for strength. Not raw brutality, but another, quiet sort of strength. The one that keeps you going, that helps ease your breathing and soothe your nerves. She’s dependable. The“   
„Slow down“ Alistair interrupted her. „If I’m to convey all of that, I think I’ll have to take notes.“   
„She doesn’t want rehearsed speeches, remember?“   
„I think I spot a flaw in your plan. If I can’t tell her any of that, then how is she supposed to know what it means?“

„Don’t pressure her, Alistair. She obviously doesn’t like that, either. Just give her time to mull it over and let the flowers do the talking.“   
„You're sure this will work?“   
„No.“   
„Leliana!“ He whined.   
„What? Woman are complex. You know what, scrap that. People are complex. There is no handbook to wooing. There is no recipe to success. Just… aim for progress for now. Do better this time. Take your time. I don't think you can win her over quickly.“   
„So, I should keep annoying her until she gives in, is that what you’re saying?“

Leliana rolled her eyes.   
„It most definitely is not! Honestly! Just because you might annoy her does not mean you're supposed to. Or that you will. Only one way to find out, though. Don't you want to at least try to fix this?“   
„Well…“   
„Well, what? You can risk your pride, and her wrath, or just forget about it and leave things where they stand. Awkward, uncomfortable silence.“   
„Is there no middle ground?“  
„You could wait until Zevran has softened her up a bit. He seems to be on the right track.“   
That got him going. 

„Alistair.“  
Nirai looked chagrined.   
„I know, I know. The rose didn't go over too well. You think I could have given that rose to anyone and said the exact same thing, but no matter what you believe, I did think of you when I offered it. I hadn't thought of you when I picked it, though. These are different.“   
„How so?“ She asked cautiously.   
„They represent you, each in a different way. And you can't take offense at the comparison this time! Look, no thorns.“

She pointed at a stalk of death root.   
„Just debilitating poison.“ She snarked.   
„You do make weak in the knees, m'lady. I feel a bit dizzy right now, in fact. Do you mind?“   
He waggled the flowers in front of her with one hand, groping around with the other as if searching for something to hold on to.   
„I… Alistair, I don't think…“

„Don't think of them as some sort of proposal.“ He blurted, desperate, remembering how averse she’d been to the whole idea of sexy times on both accounts.  
„Remember the whole big steps thing? Nothing like that, no. I’m not proposing that. No proposals here! Just a teensy-tiny step. A compliment. You know how to take one of those, don’t you?“  
She’d been buried to the tips of her ears in compliments by Zevran. Where was the harm in a single one from him?   
„I guess.“ She didn't sound all that sure, but she actually accepted the flowers.  
Take that, you smarmy Antivan!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Flowers
> 
> Headcanon:  
> Depending on when Alistair gives the rose as a gift, it would probably be a dried-up husk – unless...  
> In my fanfic, the rose stays just the way it was after it was plucked for some mysterious reason. Spilt lyrium, magic, a sign of the maker, who knows ;-)  
> Poor Alistair is so starved for affection I figure he might fall for Nirai based on her attempts to keeps things amicable between them.  
> There are several reasons his attempts at courtship are doomed, though.  
> Considering Alistair can ask the others for advice before offering the rose (Zevran, Leliana, and Wynne) I think he might ask one or more of them where he went wrong or how to fix his mistake.  
> I figured that Leliana was not trying to actually get the two of them together, but to at least get them talking to each other again.


	13. G

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feelings and tactics while/after dealing with a village under siege by walking corpses

Hahren Valendrian,

as I have had no news from the Alienage since I left, I fear the worst. I can only hope that this message finds you alive and well, and that I still have family you can pass word on to.   
By now the news of Ostagar will have reached Denerim. I have no information to offer regarding any of the elves that have laboured at the war camp, including Nessa’s parents. All I can tell you is that I survived. Know that I am as well as the situation permits. And for what it is worth, that I regret whatever pain my leaving the way I did caused the community. My thoughts are with you, even if I cannot be.   
Circumstances make travel difficult, so I do not expect to be able to return to check up on things any time soon. How is everyone? I’d rather hear the truth first-hand, than some garbled version of it. Send word to Bella at the Tavern in Redcliffe Village if you can.

Nirai

***

She read the message through once more. It sounded so formal, so unlike her, but maybe that was because her tongue tended to get away from her. Writing stuff down gave you more time to think it through first. And she had taken great care in phrasing it as vague as possible while still making sense, not signing her surname, just in case.

No mention of the Grey Wardens, of the false accusations, or of the price on their heads, nothing to hint at who she was - besides an elf that had happened to be at Ostagar. She might have been a labourer, or, flames, even a camp follower.  
If this letter should fall into the wrong hands somehow, she did not want to tip them off who it was really from.

Since she would be on the move almost constantly to organize a proper resistance against the Blight, Nirai had decided on the tavern as a temporal address for an answer. After all, Bella had renamed it „The Grey Warden’s Rest“ in honour of them aiding Redcliffe in its hour of need.  
That alone might serve to draw the attention of some fortune hunters, on a lookout to collect the bounty for the last two Wardens remaining in all Ferelden. If it became known that she intended to swing by from time to time to check for letters, anyone too lazy to actually search for them might simply camp out in Redcliffe and keep an eye open for her return.

She’d told herself that she was undecided about whether or not to mention this to Bella. But if she were quite honest, not mentioning it up until now sort of counted as a decision already. She might change it, but she likely would not. This was her only tether, frail as it was. The only place she might get an answer without directly going to Denerim. And considering the bounty, that would be such a stupid thing to do.

It wasn't as if Bella was in actual danger. And Bella owed the tavern to her, if only indirectly.  
Nirai had all but shamed Lloyd into joining the battle when she’d told him to stay out of it, lest he get someone killed by sheer ineptitude, idiocy and cowardice. She had not meant to insult the man into action.  
But with his pride stung, and his courage, intelligence and abilities in question, the former barkeep had gone to join the militia despite her intentions of keeping him pouring ale. Bella had taken over, first temporary, now constantly.

So far as Nirai could tell, Lloyd had not gotten anyone else killed, just himself. It had earned her a guilty conscience and the thanks and service of the former waitress and newly-made tavern owner.  
Bella had agreed to accept any replies to her letters – well, letter, for now – and keep them save.   
Sending letters would be harder than receiving them, though.  
Messengers cost money, and on this first one, she’d sort of cheated.

She usually tried to avoid promises, for that meant she would have none to break. Uncertain if she’d see another sunrise, she had sweet-talked a little boy into handing over his grandfather’s sword for the coming battle. She'd been surprised to find the blade a longer, less elaborate version of Fang, almost familiar despite the size and weight. Elf-made, beyond a doubt. She had kept this one to herself, instead of adding it to the growing pile of general resources they scraped together for the villagers. And talked Alistair into training with her for the coming fight, for a few hours before sunset.

Not enough to tire them out, just enough to polish the rust off her skills. Her mamae, Adaia, had taught her the basics, but that had been years ago, and she’d always preferred smaller blades that she could hide from view. But faced with this new enemy, her choice of weapons and style of fighting had seemed woefully inadequate. She tended to go in fast, to kill or cripple her enemy before they could strike back. Neither was an option when faced with a corpse.

What was she supposed to do?  
Go for the vitals? No good piercing a heart that no longer beat, a lung that no longer drew breath. Sever an artery when the blood was already clotted and obsolete?  
All critical hits seemed redundant, and suddenly, so had she.  
She could not kill what was already dead, not by attacking the typical weak spots. And considering that even mere Skeletons could be animated by the demonic force Alistair suspected behind the attacks, the undead clearly needed neither muscles nor tendons to move, so she could not even hamstring the fucking things.

So, what the fuck was she supposed to do? Go for the head, apparently.   
Luckily, Alistair had known a bit about how to fight these things off thanks to his templar training, and told them the surest way to stop the walking dead from walking was a beheading.  
A sword was way better for that than a dagger, and she had promised Kaitlyn to return it (on the unspoken condition they'd live through the fight). She'd grown fond of the blade by then, feeling like it and Fang belonged together. They almost looked like a matching set, even if one was bone and the other veridium.

Maybe Kaitlyn had made the connection between the two heirlooms too, and realized „The Green Blade“, the name likely alluding to the colour of the veridium it had been forged out of, had originally been an elven weapon.  
Maybe she had simply sensed Nirai's reluctance to part with it, as promised. Whatever the reason, she'd politely refused to take it back.  
So, Nirai had offered to pay for it. It was not quite the same as keeping her promise, but close enough to ease her guilt a little. The amount she could afford to give, however, almost undid that little bit again.

Alistair had seemed slightly mollified that she had at least made the attempt to return the heirloom, and had not complained about the money she’d spent for it, either. The sword was worth the silver, and a steal at the price, truth be told. She’d felt even worse for that, considering her good deed had not been entirely selfless.  
It had been to shut up the quiet voice that told her it was wrong to keep the sword, even when Kaitlyn insisted. And to satisfy the even louder clamour that she find out, somehow, what had happened to the Alienage after she’d left. 

Alistair did not know she’d given the girl enough to get her and her little brother to Denerim on the condition that they take this letter along.   
Who better to play the messenger, than someone who felt they owed her their life and future?   
Kaitlyn would be less likely to betray her to Loghain than some random messenger paid to deliver a letter, and more likely to make sure it reached the Hahren, whether that still was Valendrian or not. At least she hoped so. 

She could not help the guilt gnawing on her, even as she told herself that Kaitlyn and Bevin would be safer, the farther north they went. The Darkspawn were already on the march, and there was no telling whether they would simply continue straight into the Bannorn from Lothering, or spread east to Gwaren, or west to Redcliffe. If bad came to worse, all of it. And if things really turned to shit, all at once. Depending on how many Darkspawn there were, they might simply overrun the country before a proper resistance could be mounted.

Surely, leaving Redcliffe had been the safest choice? And yet… anything might happen between here and Denerim, especially to a young woman and an even younger boy.   
She’d just have to wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Guilt  
> (The) Green Blade
> 
> I took a bit of freedom with Lloyd. I know you can intimidate him into joining the fight for Redcliffe, but I thought if you were disparaging enough, that might have the same effect.  
> I had some fun analyzing the situation in Redcliffe and strategizing beyond the limitations of game-play.  
> Scouting the area? Send the shapeshifter into the sky. Morrigan is the only one who can leave without getting attacked, so make use of that.  
> Runes against Undead? Sandhal, do your thing! Surely the Chantry has some lyrium reserves they can spare for enchantment. Leliana can negotiate that.  
> Weapons and armour? Convince Bodhan to throw in whatever he has on his cart. Can’t sell the stuff anymore, if everyone dies, right?  
> I felt like Nirai had always had to make the most out of limited resources, so she’d do the same where tactics are concerned. It will be fun getting to that point of the story in the novelization.


	14. H

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai is thinking about home.

Home was Babae kissing her on the crown of her head, before he left for work and after he returned. His hand cradling a mug of mulled wine with fingers still speckled by tiny droplets of ink here and there. The way his eyes drooped and his mouth quirked while listening to Shianni chatter away.

Home was the way Shianni's nose scrunched up when she laughed. The freckles dusted over her cheeks all but disappearing, when her face flushed from having had a bit too much to drink.  
It was the open teasing between them, the good-natured shoves above the table, and the light kicks beneath it.

Home was Soris, silently sketching away on yet another scrap of parchment, his face smudged with charcoal from rubbing it absentmindedly. The shy smile he gave, covering up his work, when she tried to peek before it was finished.

Home was Alarith stocking books no one would buy, and sitting back to back with Sharai in his shop, sifting through them.

Recently, home had been Nessa crawling into her bed at night; when the jumbled mess of worry, guilt, relief and gratitude about being allowed to stay behind, while her parents laboured at the army camp, kept her awake.

Then her wedding day came, and the shemlen came, and it all shifted.  
Now, home was growing more abstract with each day.

It was the hollow in her stomach, worse than the Warden appetite. The shadow on her soul, darker than the Taint. The thought invading her mind at inopportune moments, more dangerous than the call of the Archdemon. For it kept distracting her from figuring out how to fight this Blight, against all odds, and only a shem by her side.

Home.  
She didn't know how much of home she had left to return to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Home
> 
> In my fanfic, there are some slight alterations to the timeline. Nirai did not find out about Nessa and her family on her wedding day, but a bit before that. She tried to offer Nessa’s parents the money they’d need to travel to Highever directly, instead of giving it to Nessa anonymously, and was refused. She managed to talk them into letting Nessa stay, though.


	15. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don't be mean to people about stuff that is out of their control

She had thought herself progressive, for telling the other kids not to call Slim Couldry a short-ear.  
„It's not his fault he was fathered by a shem.“ She'd said, proud of being sensible. People should not be held responsible for something someone else had done. Calling a human-blooded elf short-ear was just as mean as calling a child out of wed-lock bastard, no matter the truth. You wanted to properly insult someone, pick something they have had control over.  
But then Nola had taken that smug, self-righteous attitude from her with one simple statement:  
„It should not be a fault.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Insult


	16. J

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something I wish had been possible in game, but got cut, unfortunately

„How could you do that? Recruit Jowan into the Grey Wardens, after what he did to Eamon? Without asking me?“  
„Calm down, Alistair. It’s not like we can put him through the Joining. We don’t know how. Conscripting him was the only way. I think…“  
She swallowed, hard. „That’s what Duncan would have done.“  
„Don’t you dare play that card! Getting all teary-eyed. You never liked him!“  
„Exactly. I’m no better than him. I hated Duncan for conscripting me. And yet I did it to Jowan. How am I supposed to justify that?“  
Her voice broke. „In War, Victory, huh?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the words inspiring this fic were:  
> Jowan  
> Joining  
> Justification
> 
> I really wish you could have conscripted him during DAO, but I guess, that is what fanfics are for.


	17. K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are bad, but lies are worse. Damn you, Alistair. She did like you, you know? (still does, I guess, she is just pissed)

„You’re a Grey Warden.“ She tried to reason; her voice unsteady. „We’re supposed to be family.“  
As if it hadn’t been bad enough to be faced with his vision of a half-sister in the Fade, making it clear to her, that he did not, in fact, consider her kin. Despite all his tales and arguments about kinship among the Wardens.   
The blood that bound them together was not their own, but that of the Darkspawn.  
A debateable tether, and it had started to fray even before he’d confessed that he’d lied to her. Not just kept a secret, but lied, straight to her face, when she had asked him about his parentage.

No wonder Zevran had called for only one Warden to die. She had been right in her assumption that the target had been Alistair all along. But she had marked that up to his seniority as a Warden at the time. Maybe to the relation to Arl Eamon that he had denied all along. He had been telling the truth in one reagard: he was not Eamon‘s son. But he had denied any knowledge about who his father had been, and failed to mention that he was related to Eamon after all.  
He was the Arl’s nephew by marriage, the son of the husband of Eamon‘s dead sister Rowan, the fucking former Queen of Ferelden!  
No wonder he had reacted so strongly to the rather choice insult she’d thrown at him in the Fade. He quite literally was a right royal bastard!

„How can you be my family, if you’re going to be ‘Your Majesty’?“  
The last two words were spoken dripping venom, emphasized by a mocking bow.   
Apparently, all Alistair had to say to his defence was: „But I don’t even want to be king.“  
„YOU SAID YOU DON’T WANT TO BE A GREY WARDEN, EITHER!“  
An uncomfortable silence fell between them, the only sound her indignant huffing and his shuffling feet.  
„Yeah, well... neither do you.“

She didn’t know what to say to that, but it was like he’d thrown a bucket of water on the fire of her anger, leaving only smoke behind, stinging her eyes and choking her.  
„The point is...“ She managed to get out. Each word tinkled from her tongue clear and sharp like a tiny shard of glass – ready, eager even, to cut. „If you had to choose... between not becoming king... and not stopping the Blight... which would it be?“  
Alistair stared at her, horror struck.  
She ground her teeth together, not daring to blink so as not to spill the tears filling up her eyes.  
„I thought so.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> King
> 
> I know Alistair is supposed to tell you when you first reach Redcliffe. In my fanfic, he put if off a bit to long, and the whole "village besieged by walking corpses" stuff got in the way. So, he tells Nirai after the Circle of Magi, before they return to Redcliffe. Not a good moment, after she discovered he was going to ditch the Wardens for Fade!Goldanna (she does not know about the real Goldanna at this point).
> 
> Nirai is keeping secrets, and she is twisting the truth sometimes, but she tries to avoid outright lying.  
> Alistair can lie straight to your face, however, when you ask him who his father was. So yeah, that part is not going over well with her.


	18. L 1/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair figures something out about Nirai

She tried to avoid lies if possible. Always had. She was a master of half-truths, though. Elusive, withholding details, lying by omission.  
It became blatantly obvious to Alistair by what she did – and didn’t – tell the Templars.  
Whenever he would ask her if she was all right, she would smile one of her lopsided smiles. The answer was always the same: „Close as can get.“  
That wasn’t a lie. Even if the answer was the same every time, its meaning varied.

It took him weeks to figure it out before he finally asked: „And how far off is that today?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Lies


	19. L 2/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be happy the Mabari was along, Alistair, or she would have been a lot more bad tempered than she can be otherwise.

„You’ll spoil him.“  
„So?“ she asked, barely glancing up. „He’s spoiling me, too.“  
And by the way she smiled at the mabari – a wide, open smile like Alistair had never seen on her face before – he supposed it had to be true. Though he didn’t quite get it.  
„Like how?“  
She had gone from belly rubbing to scratching the dog’s ears and pulled his head close, resting her cheek against it.  
„Complete, unwavering loyalty.“ She declared, without a moment’s hesitation.

„Are you going to start grooming Alistair next, then? He’s been following you round like a dog.“ Morrigan interjected with her usual disdain.  
„Hey!“ He protested, without any real heat behind it. After all, they’d been over the whole him-following-stuff in Lothering.  
„It’s different.“  
Her lips quirked upward in another smile, all mischief yet no malice.  
„Alistair is loyal to the cause. Fang’s loyal to me.“ She ruffled the dog’s fur again. „Aren’t you boy?“  
A happy bark, and a large wet tongue rasping over her nose, and the elf was laughing. Actually laughing, a bright burst of joy, like sunshine breaking through clouds.  
He hadn’t even been sure she was able to, before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Laughter  
> Loyalty
> 
> The mabari did Nirai so much good in the beginning, when she had a hard time trusting her companions because of previous trauma.  
> He offered her the emotional support she really needed at the time.  
> Alistair, my boy, you do not know how much worse she could have become without that dog.


	20. L 3/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> somehow, despite all she acchieved, Nirai never feels like she's done enough.

Maybe Sten was right. Maybe she was just losing – no, worse, wasting! – time again. Why were they all following her so eagerly? She, an elf who had been bossed around by humans her entire life, had somehow become their leader right from the start. Nirai was a girl from the alienage who knew about brawling and backstabbing and lying by omission. Yet she knew little about how to rein in her tongue or temperament when angry. She had known even less about politics or warfare or darkspawn or ANY of the things she had been forced to face since departing Denerim.

Some days it felt not so much as leading, but leading them on. She had yielded little about how she came to be a warden: what she had been conscripted for, she thought they had a right to know. Having killed three nobles fitted oh so well with the act of king slaying they were accused of, after all. The details of why she had done it though – there were so many reasons she kept those to herself.

Every now and then she found herself yearning for the days of old, when the Wardens were in full power.When there would have been someone else to take up leadership, to teach what they had to know, instead of them scrabbling for every shred of information they could gather. Or at least griffins to ride, which would have made for a much faster way of traveling than on horseback or, even worse, by foot. Who said, that even if she managed to find the urn of sacred ashes that the Arl would live long enough for her to return with it? What if she came too late, once again?

She had always been too late, and left with nothing than picking up the pieces.

Too late to save Nelaros from being slaughtered. Too late to prevent Shianni from being raped. Too late to realize that Duncan had come to the alienage for her. That stepping forward didn’t mean imprisonment and execution, but being conscripted. Becoming a Grey Warden, leaving behind all that she had tried to save without knowing if she had succeeded, or only made it worse like Vaughan had threatened.

Too late to light the beacon on top of the tower – not that it would’ve made any difference, she guessed. Yet she kept wondering if Loghain would have charged, had they managed to give the signal in time, while there was still some hope of winning the battle. If there had been any hope at all.

Too late to come to Redcliffe to hinder a stupid boy from making a pact with a demon to keep his father alive.

Too late to enter the tower of magi, to recruit the Circle before it was torn asunder by blood magic and abominations.

Too late to return to Denerim, for the alienage had been purged and closed off and there was no way to find out what had happened to her family. Too late to regret not having taken Vaughan’s offer, however slim the chances of avoiding the purge might have been.

Too late to find the Dalish before their numbers and strength dwindled under the werewolf attack.

Too late to reach Orzammar while it still had a king who could honor the treaties.

And now she was combing the Frostback Mountains for some makerforsaken village so she could cure Arl Eamon. She had postponed seeking help from that noble, who had been rumored to be beyond any help ever since Lothering. The treaties at least were something real, and something that didn’t depend on one single person, she had told Alistair every time she turned somewhere else than Redcliffe again. She had been wrong in that, hadn’t she?

She had tried to tell herself that she didn’t care if they despised her for making a wrong decision, so long as it was HER making the decisions. She had been despised by humans all her life anyway. But somehow, she had found herself dancing to almost everyone’s tune except her own, to get done what needed doing. She didn’t get to make it up, only pick. Zathrian or the Lady of the Forest. Irwing or Greagoir. Bhelen or Harrowmont. Whether she had tried to get elves, mages or dwarves to honor the treaties it had always come down to one single person deciding the outcome. Only now the person they depended on was a dead woman, or rather her “charred remnants” as Sten had put it.  
She couldn’t exactly blame him for that. She didn’t believe in miracles either.

Yet here she was, chasing after one, for in the end she had accepted that she couldn’t escape what she was. She had finally swallowed her pride and accepted that she would always be a servant. And that she would dance to Eamon’s tune as well if need be, even if she had sworn to herself that she would never again submit to a human noble. She had been furious when Wynne tried to tell her what being a Grey Warden meant, because all she had heard was what she had been told by shems all her life: that she was not important, or rather, that everyone else was more important than her, and that she was to serve them. It didn’t even have anything to do with her being an elf. As every Warden, she wasn’t to serve humans, but people, regardless of race. She served a cause: to keep them alive by keeping the Blight at bay. She shook her head slightly and squared her shoulders.

Too late to turn back now. She had already led them across most of Ferelden. She would drag them to the top of this mountain if need be. She couldn’t let them see that all her anger, her fierce determination, had been fueled by fear. She had allowed leadership to be pushed on her to be pushed around no longer. For fear of being mistreated and abused again. Not that everyone treated her with respect for being a Grey Warden. There were, of course, those who believed Loghain’s lies, or like him thought the Wardens of little importance, the tales of their deeds to be nothing more than glorified history. She had finally realized that there would always be someone to hold something against her and slander her for it, whether it be true or not. Knife-ear. Flat-ear. Wench. Whore. Traitor. Deserter. Coward. Well, she had been their leader far too long to admit that she had taken up the task for the wrong reason. Too late to admit how afraid she truly was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Leader  
> Late
> 
> Nirai can be bossy and a bit of a control-freak, I'm afraid. She hates to feel helpless and overcompensates, I guess.


	21. M 1a/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> believe it or not, I had written this scene before "World of Thedas" Volume 2 was printed.

She pressed the stuffed toy hard to her breast, as she ran back to the Alienage.  
A shem girl had dropped it in the market place upon being presented with a real puppy, and Nirai had snatched it up hurriedly. It was only a plaything, dirty, mangy, missing an ear.   
But it was the closest to a mabari she would ever get in her entire life. And now it was hers.  
It was a moment of pure bliss, gone much too fast.

That day she learned that what you wanted wasn’t always what’s best for you. That some dreams best stayed secrets, buried inside your heart, where no one could use them to hurt you.  
Perhaps she shouldn’t have played with it out in the open.  
She waited under the vhenadhal, pretending the toy was a real, living mabari - imprinted on her, a companion for life - but when her cousin came he wasn’t alone. The older of the boys (brothers, orphaned during the purge, like Soris) sneered at her childish play and took the toy from her despite their protests.

He just took it. Not for himself.   
Only to tear it apart and fling it back at her, the brittle straw stuffing stinging her face and getting caught in her hair.  
„Dirty, worthless flat-ear!“ He spat, and the words stung even worse than the backhanded slap he laid across her cheek.  
„You wanna be one of those damned shems so badly, go out there and see for yourself what good comes of it.“  
Protesting under tears that she didn’t want that just earned her a slap across the other cheek, hard enough to split her lip this time.

It was true, though. She didn’t want to be human. She just wanted a mabari.  
She knew of course that elves were not allowed dogs, though the city guards tended to ignore any strays wandering in.  
Elves couldn't afford dogs. Parents who struggled to feed their kids would have their ears for wasting anything on a dog. And so, the strays were never taken in, living on garbage and the occasional scraps smuggled them from disobedient kids.  
And Mabari, huge as they were, could probably devour dinner for a whole elven family as an appetizer.  
No second-class citizen could ever own something as prestigious as a mabari warhound.

She stared down at the torn toy, sucking her lip, tasting the blood. Her tiny fingers balled up to shaking fists. It was so unfair she just HAD to kick something.  
First what was left of the toy.  
Then the elder boys shin.  
And after that duck and run and hide to avoid a third slap in the face, and, worse than that, being seen like this by her cousin.

She was so hurt and angry she just couldn’t stop crying.  
Not because of the slaps. Not because of him calling her names. Not even because he’d ripped this toy apart.  
All that she could think of was, that if it were a real mabari, it would have been the other way around, and the dog would have torn the boy apart. For doing all these things to her, that he would not have dared to do, if she had a real mabari.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Mabari
> 
> I imagined Nirai would have had a stuffed toy mabari when she was little.  
> You can imagine my delight, when "World of Thedas" Volume 2 gave me this little tidbit about Cyrion and Shianni Tabris:  
> "To ease the grieving child's worries about moving, he gave her a small cloth mabari, stuffed with hay, which had belonged to his own child."  
> Thanks to Bioware, the stuffed toy mabari is no longer just a headcanon!  
> For it to go to Shianni later on, though, there needed to be a different ending to this part, which is what inspired the companion piece following next chapter.


	22. M 1b/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soris to the rescue. He's not the bravest of souls, but I figure he makes up for that with kindness.

Soris felt like he would drown in guilt, for having brought along Taeodor. The boy himself was alright. His eldest brother, however, bitter from the purge that had orphaned the three of them, had grown suspicious hearing the name „Tabris“ and insisted he come, too.  
They should have stood up to him, told him to mind his own business.  
But Soris had not dared talk back to the elder boy.   
He should have known that Nirai would, she’d always been braver than him, and it had earned her two slaps and cost her a toy.

It was his fault Nirai had been beaten and ran away.   
He had tried to catch up, but she’d been too fast, gone past a corner one moment, and then just... gone.  
He’d looked, he’d called, and finally, he’d given up.  
He slunk back to the vhenadhal, crying, only to find that the two brothers were gone, too.  
Only the ripped-up toy lay in the dirt, forgotten.  
He gathered up the pieces, cradling them to his chest. Maybe, he could fix this, if he could fix it.  
With a plan forming in his mind, he returned home.

„We can mend it, Aia, can’t we?“ He asked his aunt, using a shortened form of her name to express affection. Despite all the warmth Adaia Tabris gave him, it would have felt wrong to call her mother, even if he could not remember his own.  
„Hm.“ She clicked her tongue, thoughtful, fingering the frayed edges along the tear. „I don’t know, dear. The fabric is almost worn through. I figure that’s why it ripped so easily, in the first place.“  
„Please, Aia!“ He begged. „Please! I have to! She was so happy. You should have seen her. And so sad, when it was taken away. I want her happy again.“  
Adaia pondered, then her face lit up, in the exact same way Nirai’s used to do.  
„I think I know a way.“

Soris was antsy all afternoon, until Nirai returned. By now, he’d been worried she might not ever come back. Stupid, of course, where else would she go? But he’d worried all the same.  
„You’re back!“  
He jumped up from his chair, the mended, improved toy hidden behind his back.  
Before he could get to her, Adaia had hugged her daughter close, then held her at arm’s length to inspect her face.  
„That needs elfroot essence. And a cool cloth. What was his name again? I’ll have that boy by the ears before nightfall.“  
„No need.“ Nirai deflected. „I already kicked him.“

Adaia tried, and failed, to suppress a chuckle. „You did, did you?“  
„I kicked him real good.“ Nirai declared, seeming to grow an inch or two as she stood proudly.  
„You know I don’t want you picking fights. I am on your side, always, but especially since he started it. Soris told me everything.“  
„Everything?“ Her eyes darted over to Soris.  
„Now, where did you get a stuffed toy mabari, my love?“  
„Found it.“ Nirai mumbled, suddenly focused on her shuffling feet. „On the ground, in the market. It don’t matter no more. It’s torn up now.“

„About that...“ Soris chimed in, edging closer. He did not know, if she’d even want it anymore, but it had been the only thing he’d been able to think of to make amends.  
Nirai glanced over, curious.  
„What are you hiding?“  
At that, Soris pulled out the mabari toy and presented it to her. It was still as dirty and worn as before, the formerly soft coat threadbare and faded, and more grey than brown.  
Adaia and him had stitched the two halves back together carefully, then covered the mended tear (and some other parts, to make it less obvious) with bits of light blue fabric to hide it.  
Her eyes grew wide as saucers, her voice a girly squeal she’d have denied until death.  
„You saved it?“

„Yeah. It’s even better, now, look!“  
He pointed at the coloured fabric, sewn onto the mabari toy in a distinct pattern.  
„That’s kaddis.“ He declared. „War paint. To make him stronger.“  
His grin grew so wide, he was probably showing off his missing molar. „He’s real badass now.“  
Like her.  
You’d never have known from the look she gave him at this moment, surprised, and sappy, and, most importantly, deliriously happy.  
She threw her arms around him, squishing the toy in between them.  
„Soris, you’re the best!“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Mending


	23. M 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loved the little tidbit about Alistair's miniature golem doll in Origins. Always figured it had been modeled after Shale, whose master back then fought on the side of the rebels during the occupation

Still overwhelmed by the unexpected gift, Alistair let the door to „Wonders of Thedas“ snap shut.  
Arl Eamon had thrust the small stone figure in his hands and told him to wait outside.  
For once Alistair had felt obliged to do as he was told, even though the shop was full of so many interesting things that he would have liked to stay and look around some more.  
But being out here with his present wasn’t too bad either. He didn’t even mind the cold very much, and now that dusk approached the lyrium infused stone seemed to shine much more brightly than it had inside the well-lit shop.

Alistair crouched low and wiped a snowdrift from one of the frozen puddles on the ground, so he’d have an even surface to put the Golem doll down.  
He’d never had anything like that before, and he couldn’t quite comprehend the Arl’s sudden generosity. Sure, it was Satinalia, and he usually got a present that day. Something else though, like a new pair of boots; something useful, and boring.  
But if he’d had to guess he’d almost think that Arl Eamon was trying to make up for the latest incident concerning Lady Isolde; maybe trying to bribe him into better behavior.

Alistair had tried his best (at first), he really had. But there was just no pleasing the Lady Isolde, and he had finally decided that he didn’t like her all that much.  
Not only did she speak with a funny accent, she hardly found anything nice to say to - or about - him. Apparently his being a bastard was a deadly insult. Well, she wasn’t the first to hold that against him, but certainly the most persistent in doing so.

Alistair watched in fascination as the small stone figure lumbered forward, raising its arms and then pounding the ground. The ice underneath the miniature fists crackled slightly but didn’t break.  
It looked a lot like in the book detailing the history of the rebellion led by first Queen Moira and then King Maric. Reading went slow, as he just started to learn, but he liked looking at the pictures. This was way better than any drawing, though. Smaller, of course, but real stone instead of ink and parchment. And glowing. And moving.

He grabbed it and turned it round, so it was walking towards him this time.  
The Golem doll brandished its fists at him and punched the air a few times as if fighting an invisible enemy.  
„What’s that?“  
He gave a start and snatched the figure up, just in time to save it from a small hand reaching for it.  
He hadn’t even noticed the little girl drawing closer until she spoke up.  
„You always swoop in like that?“ He asked indignant.

She sniffed, and almost wiped her nose with her sleeve, catching herself at the last moment. Her face and fingers were red from the cold, her eyes a feral and her skin a foreign colour.  
Probably an elf, he thought; she certainly didn’t look a Fereldan.  
Pouting slightly the girl crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her bare hands in her armpits.  
„Is that a pet?“ She asked doubtfully, her eyes fixed upon the figure struggling in his grasp.  
„It looks funny. Not like an animal at all. No fur or feathers or stuff… I’ve never seen one like that before.“ She went on without answering his question or giving him time to answer hers.

Alistair stared at her, as baffled by her behaviour as he was by her garb.  
„That’s ‘cause it’s not an animal, silly, it’s made out of stone.“ He retorted, trying to regain his composure.  
At first glance the fur trimmed cloak didn’t fit with her threadbare, darned dress. But then, the fur was a flimsy thing too, not fox or sable or seal or whatever pelts Lady Isolde bedecked herself with. He shortly wondered what it was made off, and if it warmed like his own woollen cloak; elves were supposed to be poor, were they not? Then again, elves were discouraged from mingling with humans, and she had come right up to him, unlike any of the elves from Redcliffe. Maybe it had to do something with her being from a city instead of a village. Or maybe she was just weird. Or lonely.

„It moves.“ Her tone was accusatory, as if this fact by itself ruled out that he could possibly be telling her the truth. She sniffled again, raising her hand to her nose – distinctly hooked, giving the impression of a dent at the base that elven noses usually missed – and dropping it without wiping away the glistening line of snot.  
She didn’t look the typical kind of elf, so far as he could tell. Maybe all those little details he had picked up made her sort of an outsider. Sort of like him.  
Alistair drew himself up proudly, clutching the toy to his chest.  
„It’s a miniature golem…“ He caught himself just in time. Dolls were for girls to play with, and even though this was a special case he’d rather bite his tongue then tell her it was one. It would only encourage her, and he hadn’t decided yet if he liked her or not.

He didn’t want to blow his chance to find out by boasting though; the only elves he had ever known were adults, castle servants who avoided speaking to him – well, any human, at that – if possible. It might be nice to have someone to play with while away from Redcliffe. He just wished she hadn’t caught him with this particular, pricy toy.  
„What’s a minnature?“ She asked, her tongue tripping over the unfamiliar term.  
„That means it’s the same thing as a real golem, only much, much smaller. This one was modelled after the one who fought amongst the rebel army during the Orlesian occupation.“  
Not that he was into history, really, but that fact was worth mentioning, wasn’t it?

„It’s glowing.“ She observed, mesmerized.  
As were her eyes in the gathering darkness, he noticed. Not the clear blue of the golem figure, but a warm, golden hue. Proof of her elven heritage, as good as seeing the pointed ears doubtlessly hidden under her hood would have been.  
„Well, yeah, cause of the Lyrium, you see?“ He pointed out the minute runes engraved in the stone. „That’s probably what makes it move, too. Some kind of enchantment.“  
„Enchantment.“ She echoed slowly, her brows furrowed, obviously clueless about the meaning of the word.  
„Magic, you know.“

„Oh!“ Her face lit up at the explanation, the frown turning to a wide smile within a heartbeat. When was the last time someone had smiled at him like that? „Where’d you get it?“  
„In there.“ He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, back at the shop, without thinking. Right afterward he felt guilty for telling her. As an elf, she couldn’t possibly afford any of the objects for sale in there, could she?  
She snuffled and squinted at the sign dangling high above her head. „Wooa… wondaaa…“

„Wonders of Thedas.“ He offered, astonished that she could read the sign with hardly any daylight left; astonished, in fact, that she could read at all. She was a tiny thing after all, and… well, an elf. Even he could scarcely spell his own name yet and had picked up the shop’s name from the proprietor upon entering. He’d remember the sign by the three interlinked circles painted upon a cloudy sky, not the delicate scrollwork that would have been hard for him to decipher even in full daylight. Maybe that glowing eye stuff elves had going on was sort of like carrying a light of their own with them, making it able to see in the dark. It certainly didn’t teach them letters though, he mused.

„They sell magic stuff in there?“  
She snuffled once more, and he thought he could tell from the way her hands were twitching, darting slightly upwards before dropping again, that she still tried to keep herself from wiping her runny nose on her sleeve.  
„Kind of.“ He agreed. „They got all sorts of stuff in there.“ As he saw the longing in her eyes, he added hastily: „Mostly books, though.“  
If he wasn’t mistaken, her face lit up at the idea of books even more. Weird.

Then her eyes were darting to the golem doll again.  
„Can I touch it?“ She asked, and he hugged the figure protectively to his chest.  
All of a sudden, he wasn’t so sure anymore if she was truly fighting the urge to wipe her nose; if those twitchy hands wouldn’t make a grab for the figurine instead. She wasn’t about to try and steal it, was she? That would’ve been stupid; he was way bigger than her!  
„Please?“

Alistair didn’t know how to refuse without sounding rude. She had said touch, not hold. It was not like she could take it from him. Or drop it, as long as he didn’t give it to her, and it was made out of stone, Maker’s sake! How was she going to damage something made of stone, just by touching it?  
He couldn’t imagine these small hands having enough strength to harm… well, anything.  
Showing off was one thing but sharing it… the truth was that he just didn’t want to. It had nothing to do with her being a stranger, or an elf, or a girl. Aside from his mother’s amulet this was the only thing in his possession he cared about, and he was not about to share it with anyone.

„Come on.“ She cajoled, drawing out the last word. „Please?“  
Her face took on a slightly pained expression. Clearly, she didn’t like to beg.  
He bit his lip. Maybe he should ask her if he could touch her ears in exchange. Surely, she wouldn’t agree to that, would she? Yes, that seemed the safest way to refuse her plea without him saying no. But then, ears were probably a touchy subject with elves, seeing as the most popular insult for their race was knife-ears. She might be mortally offended and stop talking to him altogether.

All of a sudden, her focus was drawn from the golem doll, drawn to a voice calling out for her in the twilight.  
„Mamae?“ She called back, and if he had thought her face lit up before, it was positively beaming now. „Mamae, I’m here!“  
Clearly, she had all but forgotten about him and his golem doll, as she was darting down the alley, throwing herself into the arms of an elven woman who had just ran round the corner.  
For a moment, they were both laughing, hugging each other tight.  
Then the woman started chiding: where she’d been so long, what she thought she’d been doing running off like that, why she wasn’t wearing any gloves, she must have been nearly frozen to death…  
And the girl was apologizing, babbling about a cat she’d been following cause she had wanted to catch it; about a snowball fight, and having to run and hide; about losing her gloves, and getting lost herself, and how very sorry she was and that she wouldn’t do it ever again, never, never ever…

The woman was laughing once more, mussing up the girl’s hair and calling her a little rascal.  
Hand in hand they turned the corner, but he could still hear her going on about how she had wanted to get back, but hadn’t known how because the market had looked different today, riddled with so many booths that they spilled out into neighboring alleys. If she perhaps could have a new pair of gloves, and that she wouldn’t lose it this time, and how long it would take to make.  
He heard the woman answer something about having to catch some more city rabbits, but the rest was too muffled by the distance to make out.

Still he stood there, craning his neck and listening for their voices dying away.  
Clutching the golem doll struggling weakly in his grip, he stood rooted to the spot until the shop door opened again and Arl Eamon emerged.  
„Come, Boy.“ The Arl beckoned, already striding past him and back to the Estate without a backwards glance.  
Right then he would have gladly exchanged the golem doll for a hug, for someone mussing up his hair. Enchanted or not, in the end it was just stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Miniature (Golem Doll)
> 
> Could not resist the temptation of having little Nirai and Alistair run into each other.


	24. N

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai likes to act tough, and she tends to be practical. But there are some things she would never agree to. She is not sure if her companions know that.

With most of the Vints dead, Caladrius was down to his last bargaining chip. And his biggest mistake. Offering to kill the slaves to augment her health? Had the tattoo covering her face thrown him off, made him mistake it for a vallaslin, and her one of the dalish? Did this fool not realize that these were her people, and that she had fought her way here so she could rescue them?

Remembering how Jonaley had taken Shianni hostage, however, once Braden had fallen and the fight turned against him and Vaughan, she bit her tongue to hold back any scathing remark. So long as Caladrius did not know what he had in those slaves, he could not use them against her. She would not make that same mistake again, not now. Not with even more lives on the line.  
So, she let the Vint tighten the noose around his neck with every additional word he spoke:  
„Allow me to leave this place alive, and I would be more than happy to do this little service for you.“ 

„‘Little service’?“ Countered Wynne. „He is talking of blood magic.“  
“Blood magic.“ Alistair echoed, his voice lacking his usual humorous tone. This situation seemed too dire for even him to make fun of. „It just gets better and better I see.“  
He looked almost resigned, as if he were expecting her to truly take the offer.  
Could she blame him, after recruiting Jowan and even Avernus? Why, yes!  
She might be practical. She was not, however, entirely ruthless.  
„Come off it.“ Nirai told him, her tone disparaging, acting as if she were. „You talk like we never had to make a harsh choice like this before.“

„And what of the Elves this mage would sacrifice?“ Zevran demanded. „Are they simply coin to be spent in your favour?“  
He looked at her like he didn’t even know her, and she hoped to all that was holy, that this was just him playing along.  
How far did they think she was willing to go?   
In war, victory.  
That sounded so simple, when it was anything but. What good would a victory be, if there were nothing left to win it for, because you had sacrificed everything along the way?  
Kill those people, and her principles would die with them.  
„Surely you would not consider such a thing?“ Wynne protested.

She did not quite know whether to be proud or offended regarding the reactions of her companions.   
For she wasn’t quite certain if they knew her well enough to just follow her lead, or not well enough to see through her ruse. Either way, it only served to disguise the deception she planned.  
„Spilling some blood to better myself?“ Nirai shrugged. „Why not? How is this different from Soldier’s Peak?“  
She’d phrased the question specifically so they would think about the difference. They could not possibly think her this callous, could they?  
Back then, Nirai had argued for the use of the vials because they needed an edge. Two wardens, against the entire Horde? They needed every edge, so long as she could justify the means. This proposal went too far.

„I’ve made up my mind, and none of you will change it.“ She declared, starting toward Caladrius.  
„But“  
„This is non-negotiable, you hear me, Alistair? Remember what I told you back then?“  
That she did not condone further cruelty where Avernus‘ research was concerned. She had given her own blood to support his work, so long as sacrifices were off the table.   
The Wardens that had been experimented on to create those vials, however, were long dead and gone. Destroying the results instead of utilizing them would have done no one any good. No, it would have served only one purpose: to ensure that the Wardens had suffered and died in vain.

It would have been different, she’d insisted, if it had been about saving them.  
If she had not been so fixated on the slaver, cutting down the distance between them with every step, she might have stared Alistair down, willing him to take the hint.  
„I made a good argument, and you gave in. This is no different, do you understand?“   
Of course, it would be different, if it were about saving people.  
„Do you?“ She snapped.  
„I…“ He hedged. „I guess. Yeah. Go ahead.“  
„Like I need your permission. I’m in charge here, and don’t you forget it.“ She snarled.  
Not to cow Alistair, but to lull Caladrius into a false sense of safety. 

She was right in front of the Vint now, holding out her hand as if to help him up. He took it, and her fingers closed tight around his hand. Once she had a hold of it, she had leverage, and it was that much harder for him to dodge her knife. Right through the throat, so he could not speak to weave one last spell.  
His eyes locked onto hers, full of surprise and quiet accusation at being betrayed.  
„I never negotiate with slavers.“ She spat in his face. „I never specified whose blood would be spilled.“ She did not mind that it covered her hand, quite the opposite. She revelled in that, the way she had with Vaughan. Act like a pig, get slaughtered like one.

She pulled the blade free, once his weight sank down on it in a way that suggested it was the only thing left holding him upright.  
„Guess what?“   
She wasn’t quite sure if she spoke to the corpse or her companions.  
„I feel better already.“  
She truly did, yet at the same time, she felt like crying.  
The unexpected voice from one of the cages nearly had her drop her knife in shock.  
„Your service among the Wardens must have been harsh, to harden you like this.“

„Babae!“  
He sounded almost like himself, blaming her vicious tendencies on the fighting. He’d never understood that the knives were a tool, and that she herself was the true weapon, honed by the humans she encountered.  
It had been men like Caladrius, who treated people as property, to be bought and sold, that had hardened her. Men like Vaughan, who saw them as playthings, and handled them so carelessly they broke. Like Horace, who had killed Mamae simply because it was convenient. And that other guard, whose name she’d never known, who’d struck down sweet Nola simply for telling them no, and then poor Nelaros, before she could take revenge.  
No men in truth, but monsters, worse than the Darkspawn.  
Babae had never understood that, not even after Mamae’s death. Despite all the injustices, he’d tried to believe in a world that was not merely cruel. A world where his little girl would not have to fight.

„Babae?“  
„Over here.“  
Even now, his voice sounded neither angry nor bitter, just... tired.  
Her head turned his direction, and her feet carried her there before she’d even made out the correct cage. She saw him, though, when she was almost there, edging past other elves to the front of his prison. She’d barely dared to hope that she’d still find him here, had been worried sick that he might have been shipped off already.  
Nirai fell to her knees in front of the cage, reaching through the bars for him, and he took her hands although they were covered in blood.

„I’m so sorry, Babae.“  
„No, my little girl.“  
He still found it in him, to call her that, even after what he’d just witnessed? He might have never truly understood her, or Mamae, but loved them no less for it.   
One of his hands reached through the bars, touching her cheek. Trailing first her scars, then her tattoo, and finally her tears.  
„You saved me. I am the one who should be sorry, for I did not manage to do the same for you.“  
She tried to smile, to not let him see how heavy the burden of responsibility pressed down on her shoulders. A different kind of responsibility than giving him grandkids, so much bigger, and yet less scary, in a way.  
„If you had, who’d be saving Ferelden from the Blight? Someone has to do it. Might as well be me.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Negotiation  
> Never
> 
> Horace is a name dropped in the City Elf Origin by the guard who kills both Nola and Nelaros; he is one of the guards at the estate too.  
> Nirai met Vaughan and some of the guards before, even if they do not recognize her. It was several years, a growthspurt, a facial tattoo and a twice broken nose ago.  
> I do not think they tend to remember any elves they mistreated anyhow.


	25. O

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a little theory I had... I can't be the only one who thought of this, right?

„What if we could make Jowan a Grey Warden? Would you be alright with that?“  
„Well… he’s saved Connor, and he’s made himself useful since. He does seem to want to make amends for poisoning Eamon. It’s all hypothetical, either way. Even if we can reach Soldier’s Peak before he succumbs to the Taint, there’s no guarantee Avernus has found a way to replace Archdemon blood in the Joining ritual by now. He might be able to stop the Taint from progressing, if Jowan makes it that far. He might be a ghoul way before that, though. I’m not sure how long the transformation takes. Death would be kinder.“

„Yes or no, Alistair.“  
„If you want a definite answer, I guess trying to save him would be better than simply letting him die. Remember Daveth, though? The Joining might kill Jowan even faster than the Taint, especially if it is some untested version Avernus has cooked up.“  
„I’m going to need your Oath, Alistair.“  
He looked confused. „You want me to swear an oath on being fine with trying to save Jowan?“  
„No, your Warden’s Oath. Capital O. I gave mine to Morrigan, remember? If I ask back for it now, and my idea works, she’ll put two and two together.“

„Wait. You don’t think…“  
„That a Warden’s Oath contains the actual Joining mixture, instead of simple Darkspawn blood? That’s exactly what I’m thinking. It might be just enough to put one person through the Joining. An emergency ration, so to speak. I guess that is what they were intended for in the first place. I’m not like to ever forget my Joining, and I doubt any other Warden would, either. If the Blight is so dangerous, we would not needlessly risk infecting other people with it. So why carry a potential plague around our necks? Not simply as a reminder. I’m certain of it. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it sooner, it makes so much sense. What with the Joining requiring magic to prepare it, and the restrictions put upon Wardens recruiting mages. Just one mage per circle? That cuts the number of possible mages among the Fereldan Wardens down to one, unless we can get our hands on some Apostates.“  
„Like Jowan.“ Alistair added, thoughtful.

„Exactly. Not every Warden is a mage and can prepare a Joining, even if all the ingredients were at hand at the time. The amulet might be for an emergency just like the one we are facing now. A potential candidate suffering from Blight sickness. If we can get Jowan to drink the contents of your Oath, it might serve as an impromptu Joining. Even if he survives, his taint will already have progressed past the usual stage, but Avernus can help with that. The Joining would slow the progression for now, and Avernus could slow it down further. The question is not what Avernus can do once we reach him, but what we can do, right here and now.”  
She paused, to let that sink in, chewing her lip absentmindedly.

Alistairs face circled through a variety of expressions as his emotions changed, ending right back where he’d started: confusion.  
„You’re asking me for permission?”  
„You were rather sore when I didn’t, before, so yeah. Before I can ask Jowan whether he would be alright with becoming a Warden, I had to ask you the same thing. I know I conscripted him already, but that was the only way to get him out of Redcliffe. The Joining would make him a Warden in truth, and before I can offer him that option, I needed to make sure you agree. Considering the circumstances with Eamon.“

„Thank you.“  
Alistair still seemed flabbergasted. Nevertheless, he took off his Oath and handed it over to her.  
„You’ll make sure he knows what he’ll be getting himself into, though? That this is not an easy out, a way to save his life and continue like before, but an oath and a ritual binding him to the Order. A bond that can’t be broken, by the way. If Avernus hasn’t figured out how to cure someone of the taint in over two hundred years, I figure it can’t be done.“

„Yeah. I’ll not force him to go through with it, despite the whole conscript thing. That was for Teagan. It was the only card I had left to play, the only way to trump his authority in the matter. Jowan will get the choice neither of us got to make, when we were recruited. The choice to refuse without getting butchered for it. But given his circumstances, I doubt he’ll see it as much of a choice, since the consequences of refusing might kill him anyway, just more slowly. He might prefer a swift execution to wasting away. I guess I’ll have to offer that, too.“

Alistair looked slightly queasy.  
„I know Duncan killed Ser Jory, to keep the Joining secret. But he was the Commander of the Grey Wardens. I never thought we’d have to do something like that.“  
„Not we, Alistair. I. I’m in charge, remember?“  
„Yeah.” He winced. „Sorry.“  
„For once, so am I.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Oath
> 
> Poor Jowan was run through by a shriek blade in an attack on camp, when Nirai fell asleep on watch due to suffering from insomnia after chapter "D".  
> They are still near the Brecilian forest at this point, so I decided to add in the shriek that can attack the camp in a Dalish Elf Playthrough. (No ghoul Tamlen, though, just shriek)  
> Since shriek tend to use some sort of poison derived from their own blood, I figured they'd be more likely to infect someone with the Taint during a fight.


	26. P

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some background for growing up in the Alienage. Mostly relating to food and families.

They had simple food at home; some vegetables to cook a broth, and some herbs to add flavor, varying according to season. But mostly it was the same, thick broth day after day, upgraded to stew if possible.  
Sometimes Babae, though adamantly opposed to stealing, brought home scraps from Bann Rodolf’s Estate. The first time he’d done so, he’d blushed so furiously even the tips of his ears turned red. Nirai had never been quite sure of the reason. Was he ashamed of taking someone’s leftovers? Angry that shemlen threw away perfectly good food, while some of the elves working for them were struggling to keep their kids from starving? Or nervous that he might insult her mamae, implying that the food she put on the table was worse than what humans hadn’t deemed good enough anymore? 

What little meat went into their pot was most definitely beneath human standards – small wonder, as even some elves turned their noses up at the thought of it.  
The so called „rabbit stew” hadn’t ever seen anything close to a rabbit, truth be told. It basically consisted of carrots and parsnips and onions, and, of course, „city rabbits”, either roof or ground.  
Rats were sort of the livestock of the alienage, though some elves were still in denial about that.  
Aunt Mair, for once, wouldn’t touch a rat if her life depended on it – something about one of the Satarel boys getting severely sick some years ago, even if it had been her nephew, not one of her own sons. 

Aunt Jimena still sent the girls, Sharai and Varda, along to check up on the snares, unwilling to give up on rats even after her boy had died. Mamae reasoned that it couldn’t have been the stew anyway, or it would have affected anyone who’d eaten, wouldn’t it?  
Neither Elva nor her mamae, nor Aunt Jimena and Uncle Dagan, nor their girls had gotten sick, after all; and Elva’s brother Fintan had gotten better again. No, it hadn’t been rats that killed Fintan. That had happened later and been entirely his own fault.  
Somehow Nirai couldn’t shake the feeling that refusing to eat rats, after Naor’s death, had played a role in that. So, it had only made things worse for Elva’s family.

Setting snares for rats was easy, once you learned how.   
Getting the rats out before they were gone was an entirely different matter. Dogs, cats, even other rats went after the dead meat dangling so tantalizing from the snares. Sadly enough, some elves did, too – those too stubborn (or stupid) to set up snares themselves, but too hungry to resist temptation.  
If there was one thing Mamae had taught her, it was to never take something from another elf that was not freely given. It was indecent. What with humans treating elves the way they did, elves had to stick together, not steal from one another.

She remembered only too well when Varda had offered some of their catch to a beggar once. They’d gotten lucky that day, almost every trap had been triggered, and hardly any of those had been plundered by some other animal – or person.  
He’d only sneered at her. „You think I’m down to eating rats, girl?” Then he had spat at her feet, as if the suggestion alone had left a bad taste in his mouth.  
Varda’s face had gone red, her hands shaking so badly she almost dropped the rat.  
„Well, what did you expect?” Sharai had snapped at him, trying to stuff the rat back into her bag, „Roast rabbit? Come on, sister.”

Another of the beggars however snatched the rat eagerly from her hands before she managed to put it away.  
„Don’ take it to heart, girlie.” He had muttered and patted Varda on the head, his smile revealing shattered teeth. „That one’s new around, and don’ know what’s good for him yet.”  
After that, Sharai had been mollified a bit.  
But she had still seized their hands and dragged them home, muttering „ingrate”, and a few other, more choice, insults under her breath.  
Ever since that day the term „ground rabbits” stuck. Their sheer size made the rats a sufficient substitute, the biggest of them almost outweighing a small stray cat – those were the „roof rabbits”, without head and claws you could barely tell the difference.

Otherwise, meat was a rare thing to be put on the table, even on special occasions, for hardly anyone could afford it. The few chickens and goats kept in the alienage were shared among all, mainly for eggs and milk, not to be butchered.  
Nevertheless, they ate better than several of the other elves around, and it had taken the incident with the beggar for her to realize that this was due her mamae being more practical then proud. And as far as she could think back, she had never gone hungry, even though Mamae was always willing to set a place at the table for any of her cousins as well.

At Adaia’s insistence Soris had stayed with them even after the orphanage had been rebuilt, and had been a constant in her life from day one. Living under the same roof, they qualified more as siblings, even though they still called each other cousin.  
You called most relatives your age cousin, regardless of the actual relation. Only the matchmakers kept detailed records of the family trees and knew who was related by what degree, and if by blood or only by marriage.

Adaia’s babae had taken the surname of his second wife when he remarried, otherwise she’d have been a Satarel, not a Tabris.  
Aunt Jimena and Elva’s mamae had been married to brothers, a few years apart, but since the men had moved to Denerim, they’d been the ones to take the names of their wives – Satarel in Aunt Jimena’s case, and Gethel for Elva’s mamae.  
Mamae had told her and Soris to stay away from Elva’s family, and the way Elva acted, looking down her nose at everyone else, she was happy to do so, related or no.  
Sharai and Varda were cousins to both her and Elva, but she was not related by blood with Elva herself, only by marriage.

A good thing the matchmakers kept track of things like that, cause apparently, it was important. She was not quite sure why, her mamae had talked about it some, but it all seemed too complicated and at the same time not interesting enough to really care about it.  
She did not care about distant relatives, either – distant in every sense of the word, mind.  
There was a rift between Elva’s family and the rest of them, that had to do either with the rat thing, or the magic showing in the Satarel and Gethel bloodlines, somehow. Maybe both, she wasn’t quite sure.

And then, of course, there was the fact that Elva’s babae had caused the last purge. After losing his youngest daughter, he’d lost his temper, too. Gotten into a fistfight with another dockworker and beaten him to death. The other man had been a shemlen, unfortunately, and retaliation by the city against the alienage had been swift and brutal.  
It all had happened the year before Nirai was born and served to alienate Elva’s family from most of the other elves around here.

Mostly though, an alienage was a close-knit community. There were always some relatives visiting one another, to share a meal or just the newest gossip while working away at their chores. Not a week passed without her sharing a roof, sometimes even a bed, with one or more of her cousins.  
Whether she visited Sharai and Varda, or Nola and her brothers, or Nessa, on every table there was served the same broth with only some small differences.

The food at Sharai and Varda’s place tasted of something she couldn’t quite place at first, never having tasted it before. The smell tipped her off though, clinging not only to Aunt Jimena’s clothes and hair, but to the wooden table, chairs, and floor as well. Jimena was a barmaid at the Dragon’s Den, and smuggling stale ale from the tavern on occasion; still good enough for cooking, and safer even than some of the water they had access to in the alienage. She used it for all kinds of stuff besides food though: killing off the slugs and snails in her vegetable patch for one; polishing the furniture and copper pots. No wonder their house smelled like a brewery, and she herself did, too; according to Sharai, her mamae at times even rinsed her hair with ale to keep it pretty.

Uncle Tormei worked at a bakery and used to bring home loaves of stale bread every so often; hollowed out they made trenchers to serve the broth in and softened up enough to be edible afterwards. The parts that had been scooped out were chopped up, and went into the broth as well, or soaked with milk or egg and formed into dumplings.  
This somewhat balanced out that Aunt Mair’s broth was thinner than common, for she had more mouths to feed, and her outspoken aversion to rats. Apparently, somehow humans were at fault for that, but, sure enough – something goes wrong in the alienage, someone will find some way to blame the shemlen. Not out loud, mind you, so Nirai didn’t know if there was something to it other than the usual swearing.

Aunt Mair was friendly enough when faced with humans; more than enough, some said.  
Somehow, she managed to get her hands on less usual ingredients every once in a while, going to the market whenever she deemed it feasible; she said that she just preferred to buy fresh from the market than from Alarith, though him opening up shop had done the alienage good.  
Though no one would ever put it to word, Alarith had nothing to give away for free, while some human merchants could be moved to spare a trifle; by little kids making big eyes, or a girl being pretty – Mair was no girl anymore, but a beauty still, and knew how to make use of it. They gave her something and got a smile and a bit of flattery in return.

Some of the other elves looked down on Mair for being too friendly to shemlen, for getting as close to begging as any respectable elf dared. It was a touchy subject, though many – usually those faced with the decision of either shaming or starving their kids – understood that, as an elf, one just couldn’t afford that kind of pride.  
And on top of that, Mair added jocosely, she was haggling like a fishwife and would feel bad robbing a fellow elf blind.

Nessa’s mamae, on the other hand, really was a fishwife; crying the catch on the market and bringing home what she couldn’t sell, though that scarcely happened. When it did though, there were different kinds of fish in the stew, sometimes even squid or crab or clams.  
Whether the broth was served in a trencher or a bowl tough, seasoned with garlic or ginger or herbs, or made more substantial by adding mushrooms, egg drops or barley, the base was always the same: whatever vegetables were in season at the time.

Adaia did her best to improve meals, baiting pigeons and ravens, snaring rats, and taking down squirrels by slinging stones at them. The cats they caught first and foremost for their pelts but ate them anyway. Waste not, want not.  
Some of the other elves – after the Satarel boy had died, both Aunt Mair and Elva’s Mom among them – fancied themselves above catching what few animals roamed the dirty alleys of the alienage and preferred to buy food so long as they could afford it.

Of course, you could ask your relatives to provide for you if your pride – and their income – allowed it. Otherwise it was either spend one’s savings – money usually meant for a dowry and a wedding permit – or go hungry. Only the desperate would sink so low as to be seen roasting a fat rat or, maker preserve, a scrawny cat above their cook fires.

Adaia however was dead set against „eating her kids’ future”, as she called it.  
She declared that there was no shame in not letting things go to waste. That if you had little, you had to make the best of it. And that she’d rather keep her daughter and nephew healthy and well fed and in prospect of a good match, than waste hard earned money on a merchant when she could acquire meat elsewhere. After a while, Nirai began to see that not as a lack, but simply as another form of pride.

***

She knew what poverty was, of course. She’d seen enough beggars in the alienage to know that.  
What she hadn’t known was that they were deemed poor, too. Not before she was old enough to go to the market with her mamae. There just had been nothing to compare their life against.  
She saw silver, even gold, changing hands, for weapons and armor, for ribbons of silk and velvet, for colorful fabrics and shiny trinkets, for books and scrolls, for tiny flasks with potions or perfumes.  
The market was a place of wonder, of things unknown, colors she hadn’t seen and flavors she hadn’t tasted yet. It was exciting, some of it frightening as well.

She saw a nobleman for the first time but was even more awed by his dog than him. The beast was almost as big as a fully grown elf, and most definitely bigger than her.  
She saw the city guard, running off a few beggars – at least, she thought, those could still run. Most, if not all the beggars in the alienage had been crippled in some way; missing fingers or an eye, or their legs crushed so badly they could barely walk. Some of those injuries had been accidents; others some sort of punishment, and apparently, they could call themselves lucky to be made a living example, not one dangling from the end of a rope. Or worse, wasting away in one of the cages.  
She even saw the gallows, mercifully empty right now. Everyone in the alienage knew that Fintan Gethel had managed to land his neck in the noose for being a pickpocket, and she shuddered just to think about it. What a stupid thing to do.

Visiting the market was something special – they only did so when Alarith ran out of stock, or they needed something he didn’t have stocked in the first place; not being sold by Alarith didn’t make the stuff on their shopping list any less ordinary though. Extraordinary meant expensive, which meant out of the question.  
She grew restless at Adaia’s side, as her mamae ignored all the wonderful things around to buy boring ones, like a bar of soap or sewing needles.

Finally, she was allowed to look around a bit on her own, as long as she didn’t stray too far, and gladly took the opportunity.  
Before setting foot outside the alienage she wouldn’t have believed it possible. Of all there was to see, she like the food best. The smells alone!  
Sure, all Denerim had a stink to it like only a big city could. In the market district however… there were stalls with more different spices than she had learned to count yet, stalls with food already prepared as a dish. Sausages spiced with pepper and garlic. Big loaves of bread with little bits of roasted onion baked into it. Honeyed ham. Candied ginger. Tarts and pies and pastries.

Drawn to an enticing, sweet smell she stopped next to a sun-drenched stall piled with ripe fruit.   
There were the usual ones, like apples and pears and stuff, but some she had never seen before.  
She picked up a fruit that looked somewhat like an apple, but felt soft and fuzzy, and warm from the sun. Bringing it up to her face she deeply inhaled the unfamiliar scent.  
„Put that down you filthy little…”  
With a start she dropped the fruit, and to her horror it rolled away and among the passersby.  
„THIEF!”

She had already ducked under the table, crawling after it, reaching out frantically; hoping neither the fruit nor her fingers would be trodden on. She wanted, no, she needed to put it back!   
Next moment, the merchant had grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and pulled her upright.  
„Thought you’d get away with it, did you? Did you?” He gave her a good shake that set her teeth rattling. „Well, you have to be quicker than”  
„Hey, you! Put her down!” Adaia’s voice cut him off sharply. „Put her down RIGHT NOW! I was goin’ to buy this!”  
Adaia brandished the fruit she’d picked up and wiped clean on her apron under his nose.  
  
„You were, ey?” The merchant scoffed, squinting at Mamae. „Those are imported from Orlais. As if some knife-ear could afford…”  
„SOME knife-ears work for nobles, as I am sure you’re aware.” Mamae hissed. „They don’t cook their own food, nor do they buy it themselves.”  
Nirai strained against his grip, sobbing, her arms extended longingly for her mamae.  
„Well, as long as you’re going to pay…” He was loosening his grip but not quite letting go yet, and Mamae pulled her closer.  
„If you keep bullying my girl, I won’t. Buy. Anything.”

With a huff of indignation, he finally relinquished her, and she latched on to her mamae’s skirt, burying her tear streaked face in the folds of the worn fabric. She felt her mamae gently stroking her hair, though Adaia was probably looking daggers at the merchant.  
„As if I were dependent on your few lousy coppers.” He murmured sullen, but took their money nevertheless. And not just a few coppers. Mamae tried to haggle, but gave in far too quickly, probably not wanting to piss off the merchant any further.

And then they left, their shopping not even halfway done. Nirai was crying so hard she could barely see where they were going. Mamae didn’t let go of her hand until they had passed the bridge to the alienage, only then her resolve cracked.  
„A month’s wages.” Adaia moaned under her breath, setting down the wicker basket and sorting with trembling fingers through the things she had managed to buy before running out of money.  
„I just spent nearly a month’s wages for…”  
„’m sorry.” Nirai managed to get out between two sobs.

She tried to wipe her nose on the back of her hand, but Adaia grabbed her by the shoulders and for one moment she almost expected to be shaken again.  
„What in Andraste’s name were you thinking?” Mamae sputtered, slurring the words in her haste to get them out. „How many times have I told you… I thought I taught you better than this!”  
„I’m sorry!” She wailed.  
„You don’t steal food as long as you can buy it! You don’t steal when you don’t even know how without getting caught! You don’t… You don’t steal, you hear me?”  
„I wasn’t!” She protested and would have burst into tears again if she hadn’t run out already.

„I wasn’t going to. I just wanted to smell it! It’s not stealing if I put it back.”  
„Why didn’t you, then?” Mamae crouched down, so they were at eyelevel.  
„I…” She shuffled her feet, snuffling. „I dropped it. When he yelled at me. I just smelled it, honestly.”  
Her mamae took a deep, steadying breath and ruffled her hair before pulling her into a tight hug.  
„I’m sorry, too, little one. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. An’ he shouldn’t have, neither. He’s right about one thing, though. You have to be quicker.”  
„But I”  
Mamae shook her head, cutting her protest off by wiping the tears and snot from her face with her apron.

„I ain’t talking ‘bout stealing, little one. I’m talking ‘bout life. You must be quick for that. A quick mind can do you more good than just being quick on your feet. There are times to run, but there are times to just stay put and stay calm as well. If you act guilty, you look guilty, you understand?”  
It had all been a show, she realized. To make it seem as if nothing was wrong. Not just the hints about working for a noble, all of it. The slow-paced stroll as they left. The haggling for food they hadn’t intended to buy.

„But how? How do you stay calm? Weren’t you scared?”  
„Scared? You bet I was scared. I just… knew I couldn’t mess this up. Didn’t keep me from lashing out at that merchant, though.” Adaia laughed ruefully. „Guess I’m not setting the best example for staying calm but being quick… that I can teach you. Let’s start with catching something for dinner, shall we?”

A little later they had two pigeons and a squirrel.  
The birds they had grabbed and twisted their necks. Well, she had managed the grabbing part at least, and Mamae had done the actual killing; just as easy as she had killed the squirrel with a single, well-aimed stone. Her own squirrel had gotten away, though. Her aim needed improvement. But she probably couldn’t throw a stone hard enough to kill yet, anyway.

***

„Peaches?” Mamie wasn’t pleased when she saw the contents of the wicker basket. „I send you for a new kitchen knife, and you bring back peaches?”  
„The old one will have to do a little longer.” Adaia declared and started honing the blade, already worn thin from use.  
Mamie shook her head disapprovingly while plucking the pigeons.  
„Peaches.” She muttered again, frowning even as she put a slice of peach into her mouth and started chewing with fervor. „Haven’t had peaches ever since I left Orlais.”  
She sucked the sweet juice from her fingers noisily, savoring the taste, but still disapproving of the waste of money.

„Has your husband’s new position gone to your head, girl? Just cause he’s working for a noble now don’t make you royalty. And there you go and spend all his hard-earned money on…”  
„Something special.” Mamae finished the sentence for Mamie, in a tone that brooked no argument.   
_Not peaches_ , Nirai thought, feeling guilty, and looked up at Mamae. _Me._  
Adaia caught her eye, put the whetstone away and ruffled her hair again, smiling.  
„It was worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Pride  
> Poverty  
> Peaches


	27. Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why people think Tabris got her tattoo - and why she did not explain it to them

There had been a lot of questions after she got her face tattooed. Well, a lot of statements, more like, even if they were phrased in a questioning tone.  
„Do you think this makes you dalish?“ Soris had inquired, worried she would run off in search of wild elves in the woods.  
„You think this makes you a grown-up, don’t you?“ Aalarith had sighed, probably regretting he ever told her any details of his encounter with the Dalish.  
„You think this makes you special?“ Elva had spat, her usual, disparaging self.  
Only Nola had truly questioned.  
„What were you thinking?“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Questions
> 
> anyone else ever get the feeling that people just phrase their assumptions in a questioning tone, instead of really asking?  
> Nirai was rather drunk when she got her tattoo, but she had several reasons that all made sense to her, at the time.  
> I think her answer to Nola would have been, that she thought she'd best toughen up. It is part of the truth, but simplfied.


	28. R 1/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> poor Alistair. This starts before C 1/2, but ends after. So yeah, he gets a full introduction to city rabbits on the menu.

„So, how is it that you can make traps?“ Alistair wanted to know.  
„I sold stuff like that. It started out small. My mamae taught me. Used to make snares, for the rats, and went from there.“  
„Oh. I know you’re more of a dog person, but don’t you think a cat would have done the job?“  
„What good does a cat do? A cat would’ve eaten them itself, wouldn’t it?“  
He grinned, glad to discover some sort of humour at last, even if it was deadpan. And horrified, not long after, to realize that she had not been joking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Rats  
> Realization


	29. R 2/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soris had distanced himself from Nirai, just to be safe. Now, she needs him, and he can't keep his distance any longer.

„I could do it. Train with you.“  
For a fleeting moment, her face lit up, and she looked at him with such hope and affection his heart soared in his chest. Then she frowned, turned away.  
„No. You can't.“  
She pulled back to the corner of her bed and folded in on herself, knees drawn to her chest and head resting on her arms.

„Why not?“  
„Because babae got rid of the swords and knives to keep me from fighting. I can't risk him trying to get rid of you, too.“  
„Get rid of me? So, what, he'll throw me into the river as well?“ Soris tried to make light.  
„You're not taking this serious!“  
Soris shrugged, used to her scolding him. If anything, it was unsettling that her words hadn't come combined with a cuff on the back of his head, so she obviously was more anxious than irritated.

„What's he gonna do, tell you to no longer see me? You're not listening anyway, or you would have given up on the fighting.“  
She just sat there, stiff and rigid, shaking her head. Keeping this still meant she tried to stay calm, but it just served to stress her inner turmoil.  
„So, what's the problem? It's not like he can keep us apart.“  
Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, and she ground her teeth, visibly trying to bite back the words.

„You think he can.“ Soris realized, and scooted closer. „Do you think I...“  
He had let her down before, he knew he had. He had distanced himself with no one telling him to, with no apparent reason, once his body had started to have a mind of his own.  
Morning wood was one thing, and it was (mostly) unrelated to her. No, his problem had been the way she’d snuggled up against him, still asleep and unaware of his predicament.  
He’d told her that they were too old to share a bed any longer not just out of embarrassment, but because he could not risk slipping up around her.  
Once he’d become aware of how his body reacted to hers, he had needed to distance himself.

Maybe she thought if Uncle Cyrion told him to stay away, that he would do so again.  
How could, he though? How could he stay distant now when she already felt abandoned after Aunt Adaia’s death? Renewed talk of troublemaking tendencies, coupled with her lashing out in anger, had served to isolate her from any relatives outside the Tabris family.  
She needed him, now more than ever.   
He’d just have to be careful. He could do that, right?  
„Tell me.“ He all but begged, tilting his head and trying to catch her eye. She averted her face though, couldn't even look at him when she finally spoke.  
„He might refuse to pay your dowry.“

Soris felt his stomach roil and his hands grow cold at the thought of leaving her behind – Maker, of leaving behind everyone and everything he knew. Hahren Valendrian would be the one to choose his future bride for him, not Uncle Cyrion. If his uncle didn't bring up the dowry though, he would be the one married off to another alienage, like most orphans were. It was a sensible system – the orphan marrying into a new family, the dowry going to the orphanage.  
He hadn't thought to be forced to leave, though. Nirai had been pretty clear on wanting to keep Soris by her side when the subject first came up, and Aunt Adaia had assured them that they would manage.

„You really think he would do that?“  
It had been all but promised. Surely his uncle wouldn't go back on his word.  
„He'd gladly break my heart if he thought it'd keep the rest of me safe!“  
She surged upright, incised, and he lifted his hands in a placating gesture.  
Soris felt terrified and thrilled all at once. He knew his cousin cared for him, but to hear it phrased like that...  
No. It did no good to dwell on this. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.  
„You are breaking his.“ He stated quietly.

„I'm just trying“ Her temper flared again, and he talked over her in a crisp and calm manner to keep her from flying into a fury: „To do what your mamae taught you. To try and keep your loved ones safe. He's trying to do the same, you just go about it differently. You two are more alike than you think.“  
„Maybe.“ She admitted, a little calmer, sinking back on her calves.   
„I just... I can't. I can't risk it, him sending you away.“  
She looked him straight in the eye, determined. 

„I can do this on my own, for now. I'll find another way. I have to. Cause I can’t do without you. I could not bear it if you“  
The rest of her sentence was cut off by his mouth on hers. He didn't know what demon had possessed him to kiss his cousin. But she let out a startled breath, and the hint of wetness between her parted lips was enough to shock him back to his senses.  
Soris jerked back his head, abashed and ashamed by what he'd done.

„Sorry!“ He blurted, backing off hastily. „I didn't mean“  
„Don't!“ She snapped. Her hands landed on his shoulders, giving a slight shove – apparently more to reprimand than to push away. „Don't you dare.“  
How thin her voice was, all of a sudden. She ducked her head, let her shoulders slump and her hands slide down, as if all the strength had gone out of her. Her fingers splayed wide on his chest, barely making contact. Yet he felt every fingertip even through the fabric, ten little spots heating his skin and sending his pulse skittering.

„Nirai...“  
He awkwardly placed his hands on her elbows, to lend at least some support. Feeling there was no safe place to touch, fearing he’d slip up again and slide right over the edge this time.   
„You... You can't...“ Her words came to a stuttering hold, her breathing uneven, almost sobbing.  
What hurt him – more than her fingers digging in, bunching up his shirt; more than knowing it couldn't be – was seeing her like this. Shaken and sad, and knowing that he was responsible.

She pulled him in, leaning forward and burying her face in the crook of his neck. He could feel the tears she was trying to hide, warm and wet and wrong.  
„You can say you won't do it again.“ The words trembled against his skin, barely more than a breath. „But you can't just take it back. Not something like this.“  
His chest tightened at the implication.  
„Oh... no.“ He pressed a light kiss to her temple. His hands moved of their own volition, circling round her waist to rub her back soothingly. „No, cousin, no.“

When she looked up at him, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles and trying to smile despite herself, he placed another gentle kiss on her forehead. „I meant it.“  
Her eyelids fluttered shut and he kissed first one, then the other, tasting her tears.  
„Maker help me, I meant it.“  
He placed a final kiss on the tip of her nose, and she suddenly tilted her head, her lips rushing to meet his, seeking reassurance.

Soris couldn't help but groan. This was not where he had meant this to go.  
It wasn't at all what he'd imagined, either. Her mouth was just there, pressed to his. Not opening, not even moving. Their noses squashed together at an awkward angle.  
This wasn't like her. This was clumsy and unsure and almost... _Oh. Oh!_  
He pulled back again, breathing heavily.  
His cousin, so bold and brave, always taking the lead despite him being older, always a step ahead of him in almost anything... If he'd had to name one thing, he was better at than her, it would have been singing. Not this.

„You've never done this before, have you?“  
When she shook her head and stared back defiantly, he couldn't help but ask: „So you never liked anyone enough to try?“  
He honestly couldn't think of another explanation.  
At that she shifted, weighing her words.  
„I...“ She faltered, fidgeted. Her face screwed up, and if he hadn't known better, he'd have thought her afraid.

„Doesn't count if there's no kissing back, does it?“ She finally muttered, making him wonder whether someone had come onto, or rejected, her. Whether she saw what had happened between them as one kiss returned and rued it now, wanting to reduce it to two separate, unanswered kisses; something never to be spoken or even thought of.   
„So… does this…“  
Her breath left her with a sigh, her eyes drifting shut. She swayed forward slightly until their foreheads touched and whispered: „It does for me.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Risk  
> Regret  
> Reassurance
> 
> Hope I did Soris justice in this one. Canon says that he always hero-worshipped his cousin, I figured that might take the form of a crush in their teenage years.


	30. R 3/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As warned in the overview, this chapter is explicit and contains graphic depictions of violence as well as non-con. Cussing too.  
> Those who have played the City Elf Origin know how you find Shianni, and can decide to fight and kill Vaughan and his cronies afterwards. I figured they'd be just the type of guys to take a hostage when the fight turns against them, and I'm exploring that situation here, so things get a bit more dire for my Tabris than they did in-game. Read at your own risk.

„It's alright. You hear me?“  
Her eyes were fixed on Shianni, but her words were for all of them.  
„I'll be alright. We'll be alright.“  
Shianni's sobs were heartrending, and she knew they didn't believe it.  
As she knelt on the floor, Vaughan pressed up against her, groping her, she began to sing, haltingly.

She knotted her fingers into her skirt, holding it down to her thighs – _stall, just stall, you can do that, stall_ \- while Vaughan bit down hard on her neck – _you can’t stop him, not now, not yet, just sing, keep singing, so they know_ \- nestling at her bodice.  
Her voice faltered, not doing the song justice. It had never been good, her range limited, her notes off key, and the current situation did nothing to improve upon it. In spite all that, she sang.

Not just any song, an orlesian one they’d heard from their mamie. The one who had come to Ferelden during the occupation, supposedly as a cook, and stayed behind when King Maric regained the throne and her employers fled. The one who’d taught Mamae so much more than recipes and songs.  
Chockfull of romance and death these songs were, of injustice and intrigue, and she had picked one with a woman done wrong, hunted and harassed, though you’d never have guessed that from the melody.

Jonaley laughed an ugly, scornful laugh.  
„Serenading us? What’s next, roses? Wine?“  
 _Poison._ She fought the urge to smile or spit at him, as to not give herself away or get into any more trouble - _more, how could there be more, there’s plenty for several lifetimes!_  
But rile them up too much and they might try and break her fast, so they could take their time afterwards. So, instead of sneering at the shem, she sang to her cousins.

The way Vaughan tore at the laces of her bodice kept jerking her backwards. He’d probably have been faster if he’d actually taken some care, but his impatience worked in her favour.  
It had her voice hitching, butchering the melody even more than usual, but this performance had never been about hitting the right notes. However, it was hard to keep track of the verses when her mind wanted to veer every which way.  
She had to pause a moment to remember which came next. Not the poisoned wine, that hint she wanted to give Shianni was, unfortunately, almost at the end.

 _A husband._ She reminded herself, then started the respective verse, unprepared for the hurt she felt. The lady in the song saved herself by agreeing to marry another, who took her away with him.  
Nelaros had been better than that, hadn't made the marriage a condition for her rescue.  
He hadn't come just for her, but the others as well.  
He'd not gotten the chance to take her home, not like in the song.

Vaughan gave up on the laces and simply cut through them.  
Cut open her bodice and her back. Cut just deep enough to injure, but not deep enough to incapacitate.   
The song faltered, as she bit her lower lip to stop herself from giving voice to her pain, from giving him that satisfaction.

 _He likes them squirming. No, not just squirming. That means discomfort. Too weak, both the motion and the emotion behind it. Struggling. He wants them subdued, yes, by fear or force, but not at first. The more they struggle, the sweeter the triumph._  
That was the reason for his brutality. It wasn’t mere inconsideration, mere strength unrestrained. This was deliberate, aimed to bruise and bloody and break (her) women.

She tried to generalize, to not let it close, not let it be about her, even with Vaughan this close and all over her. Nirai quickly mapped out the rest of the lyrics in her head instead.  
 _A home, and then the lord’s return. A ruse, and at long last revenge. You would have been fine, if you had stayed away, but like the lord in the song you couldn't leave well enough alone. She'll be safe and you'll be sorry._

Then Vaughan raked his nails along her spine, retracing the line running red, and she gasped in spite her resolve, arching her back involuntary.  
She actually felt his grin against her neck before he bit down again, not quite in the same spot but a bit higher. One hand slipped under the now loosely hanging fabric, squeezing her breast again, smearing it with her own blood. The other groped her crotch.  
 _Don’t cry out. Don’t cry! Fuck, don’t start crying, that would please him, that would scare them. Don’t!_

Voice wavering, eyes on Shianni and Jonaley, she resumed the song, doing her best to ignore the hand that came up to squeeze her neck, warningly.  
Her own hands on her calves, a little above where a small orlesian blade was slid into the top of one boot.  
Even if Vaughan or Jonaley could understand the words, she doubted they’d grasp the hidden meaning, but – _please, Shianni. You know that song. One where the bad stuff happens to the bad guy too, in the end. She feigns giving in when he returns, it’s a ruse, only a ruse._

This song, and a few of the recipes that had come down to them from their orlesian-raised and -trained grandmother, and most importantly, Jonaley’s body right now, contained poison. She needed Shianni to make that connection.  
Nirai had picked up at the right part of the melody, skipping a verse or two not because she had forgotten the lines, but to get in the one hinting at Jonaley’s fate, closer to the end.  
Poisoned wine, not poisoned blades, but... 

She could see a flicker of understanding, of hope, in her cousin’s eyes and drew strength from it.  
Vaughan bit down harder, hard enough to draw blood this time, likely to make her scream instead of sing.   
She hissed, digging the nails of her left hand into her calf. The fingers of the other found the hilt of the blade hidden beneath her skirt and curled around it, clutching it through the fabric.  
Vaughan was close enough to kill right now, but – _shit_ – Jonaley still had Shianni and showed no signs yet. _Shit, shit, shit!_

As Vaughan tried to pull up her skirt, she fought it, yelling „No!“  
 _Not now, not yet, please, Andraste, NO!_  
„You knew this was going to happen.“ He breathed against her ear, and she shuddered in revulsion. Of course, she knew, but – _too soon, damn it!_ \- she had not known it would happen so quickly.  
He had already gotten it up, and she desperately clutched her skirt with both hands, so he couldn't get that up, too.  
He thought she was afraid of what he’d do, not of what he’d find, and she thought she might retch as she could feel him twitching, rubbing against her lower back.

Sick bastard, getting off on her protests, on the others silently suffering as they had to watch.  
She knew that was what he enjoyed most about all this. Doing, taking, whatever he wanted, no matter how often he was told no, devastating lives in the process.  
She needed to stall, needed to put on a show. _Well, more of a show._  
„No, please!“ She begged, biting her tongue afterwards in disgust, hard enough to taste blood.  
 _Not. Yet._

Vaughan seemed simultaneously pissed and thrilled by her reaction, tugging at her skirt so hard part of it tore.   
„Now, be a good little whore and do as you're told. Let go.“ He commanded, tugged at her skirt once more, then seemed to decide she could hold on only to so much fabric at a time and yanked off her bodice instead, exposing her.  
 _Shit!_  
She jerked, impulse telling her to cover her breasts, but her hands stayed firmly where they were.

Survival instincts trumped shame as she stared down Jonaley in defiance, him leering back, unaware she watched him for signs of poisoning.  
 _Shit, I’m sorry, Shianni. I’m sorry it’s taking so long. Sorry you have to watch this. Soris, Sharai, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._  
Vaughan was groping both her breasts now, squeezing so hard it was painful, and Jonaley gave a small groan.   
_From pleasure, or... oh, please,_ ** _please_** _!_

Was it just her imagination, or were his eyes glazing over, getting unfocused?  
She felt Vaughans hot, heaving breaths against her neck, over her ear, onto her cheek.  
„I said“ He pinched her nipples brutally. „Let go.“  
She almost did when – _FUCK! What the actual fuck, oh shit!_ \- that fucker bit down on her ear of all things, the sensation worse than all the rest of it combined, cold washing through her body as if she’d been shoved naked into a snowdrift.

Sensing that he'd thrown her off balance, Vaughan went for her skirt again, yanking hard.  
 _Not yet! Not quite there yet, not now!_  
Vaughan managed to rip Nirai’s skirt, pulled it up around her waist. Yet her fingers still gripped a hilt underneath the scrap of cloth she’d managed to hold on to, concealing it from his lewd eyes.  
 _Andraste, no, not now! So close, so close!_

Luckily, Vaughan was too enthralled by his sick little game to notice how Jonaley’s fingers had started to tremble, how the tremor rapidly took hold of his whole body. And the knife held to Shianni’s throat finally slipped from Jonaley’s fingers into Shianni’s waiting hands – _good girl! Now_ – just as Vaughan shoved against her. Shoved her over so he could – _not this, not_ – mount her. _NOW!_  
She’d given in to the shove on pure instinct, gained a little space in between them, gained an instant he was not pressed directly up against her, so she could – _do it! NOW!_

With a swift motion, she pulled free her knife, then slammed it backwards, sheathing it in Vaughan before he got the chance to sheathe himself in her.  
He squealed like a stuck pig as the knife dug deeper into his belly – „We told you, didn’t we?“ –squealed as she twisted the knife, as she pulled it out.  
Nirai spun to face him, scraping both knees in the process, but barely noticing.  
She trusted Shianni to take care of a dying or hallucinating Jonaley, if necessary. Even a wounded Vaughan was still a threat, though.

„Fucking whore!“ Vaughan had recoiled, reaching for his own blade again. „I’ll make you“  
She feinted at his throat, and as his arm came up to block, she dropped the knife to her other hand to bury it in his belly again.  
„We told you not to touch us!“ Remembering how Shianni had threatened to gut him for it, she dragged the blade sideways before pulling out. „We TOLD you what would happen if you do.“

They'd been down on their knees already, but now Vaughan was going down hard, thighs smacking on his calves as he all but collapsed. He curled in on himself, clutching at the glistening coils threatening to escape the wound, as if that could somehow safe him. As if anything could safe him now!  
„You knife-eared bitch!“ He howled. „You“  
This time, she really did go for his throat, if only to shut him up.

A hefty punch, aimed so he couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t spew any more of his filth.  
The blade sticking from her fist scraped his neck only by accident. _You don’t deserve a quick death, you disgusting piece of shit!_  
„Wanna know“ She asked, as she plunged the knife into his chest, puncturing his lung, grabbing him by the shoulder with her free hand so he wouldn’t just topple over, cause – _don’t you_ ** _dare_** _die on me yet_ \- she was not done, not by far.  
„Why you regret“ Another stab. „Talking to“ Stab. „Knife-ears?“

On the last word, she twisted the knife again, trying to cause him as much pain as humanly possible.   
There was blood bubbling from his mouth and half a dozen wounds by now.  
 _Not enough, not_ ** _nearly_** _enough._  
Humanly possible, her mind had not even paused at that comparison. Because while she herself was not human, their cruelty had been the measuring stick of misery in the Alienage. 

Vaughan’s hands were no longer trying to hold in his entrails, scrambling over her own instead, trying to get her to stop, to let go, to let him be.   
_As if._  
She was simultaneously revolted and revelling in it, spurred on to the same heights, pushing him off his throne of sadism and firmly planting her own behind on it.

She became aware she was crying, blinking furiously as the tears blurred her sight.  
She needed to see this, needed to see the light go out of his eyes when she finally plunged her knife into his dark, rotten heart. And then a second time, a third, a fourth, punctuating every word.  
„YOU’RE! DOING! IT! WRONG!“  
Finally, she let the small blade clatter to the ground and stumbled to her feet, shaking violently.

She didn’t notice the Half-crown slipping from the folds of her skirt, where it had landed, also unnoticed, when Vaughan had ripped off her bodice.  
There was no metallic plink as it hit the floor. The sound of its impact swallowed by spilt blood.

The raw sound wracking her was a fractured thing: part heartbreak, part hatred, part nausea and part relief, with splinters of other feelings and sensations strewn between, too many to acutely be aware of. She couldn’t help giving a vicious kick to the groin of the figure slumped at her feet.  
Then, as if to own it, making it deliberate instead of involuntary, she shook herself some more in an attempt to regain control. Shook herself like a dog after a bath, only she sprayed droplets of red and she couldn’t get clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Ruse  
> Rescue  
> Revulsion  
> Revenge
> 
> While I can see Nirai reacting like this, I wanted to portray revenge as a vicious cycle, not a good thing. Hope I managed that.  
> Tried to give this a frantic feel by interspersing her thoughts, hope I didn't miss putting any of those in cursive.
> 
> While I've seen many Wardens who handled their brutal Origins fine most of the time, this will not be the case for Nirai.  
> She tries putting on a brave face, acting like nothing can rattle her, but she'll have flashbacks and refuse to talk about what happened in any detail, then get pissed at Alistair for not knowing/caring. Not saying that's rational, but yeah... she does not exactly handle it well.


	31. S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alphabetically this story comes after R 2/2, but it takes place maybe a year or a half before.  
> Soris has started to figure it out, and it is starting to become a problem

Soris was crying with laughter. The rain fell so relentless he couldn’t tell the difference between it and the tears streaking his face anymore. Pressing up against the wall next to his cousin, he looked at the water pouring down from the sky in heavy droplets, down from the eave in small rivulets.  
The roof offered shelter, and they had sought it out. Rather redundant, seeing as they were already soaked through, their calves splashed halfway up with muck from running.

He bent down to pull off and turn over his left shoe – Nirai had managed to sidestep the puddle he had sunk in over the ankle – and the squelching noise and trickle evoked another burst of laughter from his cousin.  
He tried giving her a cross look, but couldn’t help the grin stealing back on his features. It had been a while since he'd felt this light-hearted.  
After a few steadying breaths she tilted her head sideways, resting it against the wall and meeting his eyes. A quick flick of his fingers, and her face was speckled with mud.

„Oy!“ She cuffed his shoulder, a light punch without any real force behind it. „Watch it.“  
Soris smirked. „Now you look like a real Tabris.“  
„Do I now?“ A moment later she had him in a headlock, knuckles rubbing against his cheek.  
„Do yours come off with a good scrubbing, too?“  
He pushed back, laughing, and went for her knees, where he knew her to be especially ticklish. She let go with an indignant squeal, and Soris righted himself.  
“If they did, Mamie would have seen to it years ago.“

He carded his hand through his usually strikingly read hair, now darkened and plastered down by the rain, and shook the droplets off with a lazy flick of his wrist, spraying her face again. The gesture provoked another fit of giggling from his cousin, who immediately reached out a hand to flatten the fringe to his head again, for no other reason than to annoy him.  
„Stop it.“ He protested, but of course his hand was only followed by hers again, then by both as he tried to keep her off, and his hair the way it should be. It was one of the typical, teasing struggles they’d had ever since they were kids, only he'd grown more and more uncomfortable with them.

Finally managing to grab her wrists he yelped: „Will you stop it!“  
Her grin slowly drained away, taking the dimples in her cheeks with it.  
He dropped his hands as if burned and muttered: „Sorry, I...“  
When he looked up she was still staring at him, like she’d never seen his face before.  
„What?“ He asked, a bit defensive.  
She reached out a hand again, slowly, deliberately. This time though the touch started at his brow, brushing the hair out of his face in an almost tender gesture. Soris straightened up involuntarily, slightly alarmed by the sudden change.

His cousin hesitated a moment, her hand still in his hair, before flattening it down yet again.  
She leaned towards him, taking him in, and his eyes widened at the intense look, the sudden lack of personal space.  
„Cousin, what...“ It took all he had not to let the words come out a stammer. They were kissing close.  
„I’m taller than you!“ She blurted, suddenly.  
„No, you’re not.“ He squared his shoulders, tried to straighten up even more, to gain every inch of height he possibly could, at the look of dawning horror on her face.

„I am!“ she insisted, pressing in so close he felt heat creeping up his cheeks to his very tips of his ears.  
Her fingers carded through his wet hair, then her own, as if trying to measure out their exact height, before reaching out again, dangerously close to his ears.  
„I never noticed before, with your hair sticking up every direction and all that.“  
There was another thing she had never noticed, but if she kept staring like that, standing so close, and constantly touching him, it wouldn’t take her much longer to figure it out.

Luckily, she hid her face in her hands with a groan.  
„I’m taller than you.“ She repeated, obviously distraught by her discovery.  
„Maybe half an inch or so.“ He tried to play it down. „What of it?“  
„But I’m thirteen.“ She wailed. „What if I keep growing?“  
Soris cleared his throat. He wanted to hug her so badly, tell her everything would be fine.  
She was just fine. 

Instead he said: „That would be just like you. You never know when to stop.“  
She made a chocked sound that could have been a suppressed sob as easily as an indignant scoff, and lowered her hands just enough to squint at him through her fingers.  
„It’ll be all right.“ He managed, lifting his hand so the tip of one finger brushed the outline of her shoulder. He couldn’t get out the rest however.  
 _He’ll love you. How couldn’t he?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Shenangians  
> Secret


	32. T 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This fits nicely with the previous chapter. Nirai did not stop growing at thirteen.

The dwarf was stumbling through his story of being on the lookout for the Grey Warden. The, as in one. _Must be pretty drunk to miss that there are actually two of us_ , she thought. Even though his enunciation was clear enough not to betray it, he’d admitted to drinking quite a lot before setting out to search for Alistair. Or her. One of them, at least, since he had not realized that the different genders mentioned actually pointed at there being one male and one female Warden, so he was not sure what to look for.

„Stout and muscular, fair of face, but with a strong jaw and a bold nose, surrounded by a great glowing nimbus.“ The drunkard narrated the description he’d been going on.  
Good grief, he must be truly rat-arsed if he took the glowing part serious. You’d think after her and Alistair had been running around Orzammar for a while, the description would be more accurate, and not playing up the legend of the order. Did they think Grey Wardens had lyrium-infused armour, or something? She was happy enough to have a matching set at long last, and a decent one, too. Let alone an enchanted one.

The dwarf kept rambling:  
„If she's a woman, she might be more slight, but her eyes will shine with the light of purity and her large but chaste bosom will heave magnificently. I've been looking for hours, but I haven't seen anyone who looks like that. Very frustrating.“  
She almost had to laugh at that, and held back only so she could feign innocence and get rid of him. She had enough to handle without that fool bothering her.  
But Zevran foiled her plans by turning toward her with a smirk.

„You know, my dear Warden... aside from the glowing nimbus, this description of you is pretty much spot on.“  
She groaned. „Oh, please. And why the fuck would I glow? I’m not a mage, nor some weird mushroom, or a fucking firefly.“  
„And... maybe the purity part.“ Zevran amended. „Too much cursing to qualify for that, I’d wager. You do, however, have a large, infuriatingly chaste bosom.“  
„Zevran!“ She snapped, irritated.

„What, her? An elf? If she’s the best they got, then standards must have fallen way down.“  
„To your own level, you mean?“ Zevran retorted in a playful manner. „Do not underestimate her, dwarf.“  
„Heh.“ The drunkard chuckled. „Well, I suppose it would account for an elf being down here, let alone two. Not sure why she brought you along, though.“  
He finally addressed Nirai directly. „No one mentioned the elf part, so I thought you’d be... taller.“

And that from a dwarf, of all things! Her unusual height had always been a sore spot for her, and now this guy had the audacity to imply she was not tall enough?  
She scoffed. „Please. If I was any taller, I could don horns and pass as a Qunari.“  
She held her hands up at the sides of her head, as if to encourage him to visualize it.  
„You could not.“ Sten disagreed in his usual, flat tone.  
Nirai rolled her eyes and dropped her hands. „Ugh, fine. Not qunari.“  
She’d never been the religious type. Or the rule following type, for that matter.  
„But I'd make a decent Tal'vashoth.“

Sten just shook his head.  
„There are no decent Tal'vashoth.“  
She might have thought the same of humans, once, painting all of them with the same brush after experiencing the brutality of a select few. There was not much point in arguing right now. Sten’s convictions were based not on personal experience, but doctrine, and engraved to deeply to be changed with just one conversation.  
Depending on how far Branka had pushed during her exploration of the abandoned thaigs, they’d have a lot of time down in the deep roads to discuss the matter.  
All she had to do was rid herself of this drunkard, so she could continue her mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Tall  
> Tal'Vashoth
> 
> Nirai is dismissve of Oghren at first, because she expects him to waste her time.  
> She'll warm up to him quite a lot, later


	33. T 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made the quest at the orphanage a bit more personal for Nirai. Not that it was not horrible before.

„Tell me that wasn’t her!“  
After having to fight off the spirit of the tormented woman, Nirai grabbed Wynne’s hand, demanding, no, begging.  
„Tell me that wasn’t truly her! I know the violence here sundered the Veil, so the Fade bleeds through. Tell me that was some kind of echo, some spirit replaying what happened here. A spirit, not a soul, right? Not her soul, stuck in the torment of her last moments. Tell me!”

Even if it were a lie, if the mage would tell her so, she would believe, had to believe.  
But Wynne gave her the truth.  
„I don’t know, child. There is no way to know.“  
She’d kept it together until the immediate danger was past, but then she’d had to ask, had to have answer. She’d hoped for some comfort, not this devastating candor, that left her sobbing uncontrollably.

„Did you know her?“ Alistair asked, sounding shook.  
Nirai was pressing her fists against her eyes as if that could at least hide the tears, when the sounds rent from her were damning enough.  
Knowing what the purge and its aftermath had done to her family… Sharai dead, Nessa defiled, Soris spurned, Valora abducted, and babae missing… all that had been bad enough. But being confronted with this spirit – all the colours bled from the ethereal form, and the features harder to recognize now that they were see-through; but there had been no mistaking the brutally shaven head, the thin scar across the scalp, that told her, even in the rush of things, who she’d been facing.

„She was my cousin. An orphan, herself, taking care of the younger kids around here. A healer. She did not deserve this. Fuck!“  
She kicked a barrel so hard it actually tipped over and rolled away, spilling the collected rainwater.  
„Noone deserves this! Fucking shem taking out their frustration on the innocent. It should have been me! It would have been me, if Duncan… damn him! Do you see now? Why I hated him? I knew this would happen! I knew the moment he took me. They needed someone to blame, and he took that away.“  
„I get that.” Alistair admitted.

His adoration and her hatred for Duncan had been cause for them to clash several times during their travels. He had never wanted to hear a bad word against his mentor, and she had tried to balance her need to not hurt him more than necessary with her own need to keep her hurts close to her chest, lest she break down like she’d done just now.  
With their return to Denerim, however, the truth came out, bit by bloody bit.  
“But do you really think the Purge could have been avoided, given how many humans you killed?“  
Nirai stiffened at the veiled accusation in his words.  
„It was worth a try. Even if it would have happened, at least, I’d never have found out the other way.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Truth  
> Torment
> 
> given that Sharai is orphaned, and moved into the Orphanage herself, I figured the spirit of the tormented woman might be her. Don't know why I keep doing that to my Tabris, it just fit, and you do not get to see the unnamend bridesmaid in game again, even if you decide to rescue the abducted girls. So, yeah... sorry for that.


	34. U

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai musing about the nature of her enemy

Urthemiel. The Dragon of Beauty.  
She had no trouble killing creatures that were harmless or beautiful. Her mother had driven that instinct from her at a young age.  
Once beautiful. But no more.  
It had slumbered, somewhere deep within the earth, until the darkspawn came. According to Riordan, the Grey Wardens had been able to pinpoint the location this Blight had started, and thus figured out which ancient Tevinter god their enemy had been.  
Now it was an Archdemon, tainted. Fully awakened yet half decayed.  
Majestic, sure, but monstrous.  
All the better. No one blamed you for killing a monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Urthemiel
> 
> thanks to reddit-user takzhe for suggesting it! U was among the last few letters in my Alphabet that was still missing, and the only one I had no idea what to do with.
> 
> slight callback to C 1/2, where Nirai says it is a good thing the Darkspawn are ugly blighters, and to N, where she likens bad people to monsters.  
> It is always easier to kill a monster that looks like a monster, because people are less likely to question that.


	35. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it all started with a shattered bottle

„You expect me to drink this swill?“  
Vaughan’s guest looked indignantly at the flagon she returned with.  
„No sense in wasting a good vintage.“ Retorted Vaughan. It wasn’t meant to insult his guest, actually, but it should take her a few more moments to figure that out.  
She was determined not to spill a single drop this time – no matter how hard this shem smacked her behind. And she was certainly not going to drop another flagon to shatter on the ground. It had been a first, to be groped like this, and should he do it again... well, she’d know it’d be coming, and this time she wouldn’t flinch.

„Pour.“ Vaughan drooled, and she did.  
„Now, get this mess cleaned up.“  
The moment she went down on her knees, he toasted his guest and emptied the goblet over her head.  
Nirai couldn’t help but gasp in shock, and the two men were barking laughter.  
„Told you. No sense in wasting a good vintage.“  
She took off her apron, which was largely stained by now anyway, to mop up the rest of the wine and gather the shards, and get the void out of there.

All she could think of was another dress ruined, the sickening feeling of the soaked cloth sticking to her skin, the unease that settled in her chest, threatening to choke her.  
The smug way Vaughan had looked at her slowly changing from satisfaction to something even worse. Something like desire had stirred in the young noble at the sight of her in her wet frock, and she wasn’t even sure it had anything to do with what little curves she had showing underneath.

It thrilled him to humiliate her. To have power over her, to be able to do whatever he wanted, with no one telling him no.  
She didn’t understand it back then, couldn’t put it to words though she felt it with every fibre.  
Men like that, they didn’t want to bed women, they wanted to break them.  
Of course, he’d prefer an elven girl for that; they were smaller, more delicate, easier to dominate, and most of all: disposable.  
No one cared what happened to an elf, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words inspiring this fic were:  
> Vaughan  
> Vintage
> 
> When Shianni smashes a bottle of Vaughan's head during the City Elf Origin, Nirai can't help but think how everthing had started to go wrong after the last broken bottle connected to Vaughan.


	36. W 1a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valendrian did his best to manage the aftermath of the purge in the year 9:10.  
> Some of his measures involve the matchmakers.

The purge had forced his hand, where the orphans were concerned. With the orphanage burned down, Valendrian had started or sped up the process of finding the oldest of them matches, even if some were a few years shy of the proper age.  
The whole alienage had suffered, and it was hard enough to place the other orphans with families to take care of them. The ones married off would no longer depend on the charity of neighbours or distant relatives, and the dowries brought in that way would prove essential for rebuilding, or renting new property, regarding the orphanage.

Adaia was another matter altogether. Self-sufficient and skilled, and not an orphan, so any dowry paid for her would go to her family, anyway. Her marriage was meant to tie her down, not free up resources.  
In these dark times, this stubborn, compassionate young woman was a beacon of strength and hope, despite having lost her half-brother and sister-in-law to the mob. She had saved other lives during the purge, protected more than just her closest kin, and it had cost her dearly.  
Seeing her rocking little Soris, her nephew, who'd lost both parents before he could even form lasting memories of them, had given him an idea.  
When mentioning it to Adaia, she'd fiercely voiced her approval before he was even halfway through.

Soris would be in good hands, and Adaia, without even knowing, might be in return, even if they were such tiny hands. He counted on that to save her. This infant she carried around almost constantly since the purge was the best argument Valendrian could have made for how much Adaia was needed, how much she gave to this community.  
Valendrian had already pushed to move her wedding forward before the purge had happened, so they would not lose her when Duncan came recruiting. Maybe Duncan would reconsider when he saw her settled, put the needs of family and alienage first.  
Not knowing who’d arrive sooner, groom or Grey Warden, he’d entrusted Adaia with Soris’ care as well. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Wedding
> 
> We learn in Origins, that Valendrian moved the wedding of the City Elf forward, just as he did with Adaia's wedding, to stop Ducan from recruiting them. I figured, he did more than that, and put Adaia in charge of the newly orphaned Soris.  
> We also learn that Cyrion thought of running off in search of the dalish before he met Adaia. I figured he would arrive at Denerim shortly after the purge, and the Alienage seemed desolate. But with Adaia a beacon of strength and hope, he believed that things could and would turn out alright.


	37. W 1b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai will not simply let go of Soris

„When I grow up, I’m going to marry Soris!“ Nirai declared. And if that hadn’t come out of the blue, Adaia did not know a short-ear from a shem.  
„You can’t, little one.“ She stated, bracing herself for the storm.  
„Why not?“ Nirai’s voice was already rising.  
„Because Soris is family. And since Cyrion and I took him in, but are not his parents, the Hahren gets to decide the match.“  
„Why him?“ Her daughter demanded, petulant. And, without waiting for an answer, went on: „Can’t you tell Valendrian to pick me, Mae? He’ll listen to you. He likes you.“  
„No, little one.“

Before she could explain further, her daughter started throwing the expected tantrum, stomping her foot and raising her voice even more.  
„Well, I won’t let him! He can’t stop me, if I want to marry Soris! People can marry for love. Mamie and Babala did it, and his parents, and grandparents, and great-grandparents, you told me yourself.“  
„Our family history is a bit unusual, dear. The occupation played a big role in that, though, and it was over before you were born. You know very well that your babae and I were a match, and we love each other just fine. Don’t worry. We will find you a good husband.“

„You don’t need to. I’ll marry Soris, and that’s that. The Hahren and matchmakers can keep their noses out of this, they are not needed! Ask Mamie, she’ll agree!“  
„Her situation was different. Your grandmother was from another alienage, another country even. Her marriage brought new blood to the alienage, no matter which man she chose. In fact, the part about new blood was true for all the people you mentioned. Aenea came to Denerim all the way from Tevinter. Nehnir and Hedra ran away together from Gwaren. And Nehnir’s father was not even from an alienage, he was dalish. You and Soris are cousins, however. The blood lines are too close. You two cannot marry, even if the decision were in our hands.“  
„But that’s not fair!“ Nirai wailed, bursting into tears. „We’re his family. We should get to keep him!“

„Now, now.“  
Adaia opened her arms, and her daughter threw herself into them. Face buried against her chest and clinging tight, Nirai sobbed and hiccupped.  
Adaia had seldom seen her this upset. She stroked the little girl’s hair and back, thinking she was finally getting to the bottom of this.  
„What was that part about keeping Soris, my love?“  
„Sh-Sharai said... she s-said, that... orphans... get married... off. And have... to leave... the alienage.“  
Her daughter managed to get out before dissolving into tears again.

„Oh dear.“ Adaia sighed. „That’s what this is about? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? There’s no need to worry, da’lath’in.“  
Nirain gulped. „No?“  
Her eyes peeked up at Adaia from the saftey of the embrace, hopeful, red from crying. She wanted to believe, and Adaia had never yet let her down, but she obviously did not see how this could be.  
„Definitely not.“ Adaia reassured her, wiping Nirai's face with her apron, now that the tears had stopped.

„You know that orphans get married off to another alienage, because the dowry it brings supports the orphanage? That is for the orphans that live there, little one. Soris lives under our roof, he’s like our own. If he were sent away, the dowry would go to us. The orphanage has nothing to gain in this matter. So long as we bring up the dowry, Valendrian can pick whoever he wants, and the girl will come here to marry Soris. That’s how dowries work. You compensate the family who gives up one of their members to the other alienage. But we are not giving up our Soris, now are we?“

Nirai broke out one of her rare smiles, showing off her big teeth.  
„No. Never.“  
Then she frowned, latching on to another problem.  
„Can we bring up the dowry?“ Once again, before Adaia could answer, her little girl rushed ahead.  
„Can I help? Can we split mine? I don’t need a husband that looks nice, just one that is nice.“  
Adaia chuckled. „Oh, da'lath'in. We won’t have to. We’ll save up a decent dowry for each of you. Promise.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> wedding
> 
> I figure that during the occupation of Ferelden, travel was less safe. Most Elves tried to bring up the dowry, so their own children could stay put and the spouse would have to travel to their Alienage. Not everyone could afford that, especially families with more than two or three children were struggling in that regard.  
> Since Nirai's dalish ancestor brought his knowledge of healing with him and taught it to his children, they were valued members of the community, and all of them who grew old enough to marry stayed within the Denerim Alienage, their spouses came to Denerim one way or another.  
> The Tabris & Satarel family history is a bit unusual not just in keeping most of their offspring in one place, but for several marriages that were not arranged matches but love matches.  
> Nirai grew up on stories about her ancestry, and that is part of the reason why she thinks she will not have to agree to a match if she does not want to.


	38. W 1c

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You might remember Sharai as the unnamed bridesmaid from the City Elf Origin.  
> She had a rather bleak outlook of the situation, and I always wondered why. This is my take on it.

When she was little, she loved weddings. The music, the dancing, the food.  
Ever since the first one she could remember, Sharai dreamt of her own, of a pretty dress to wear and a kind, handsome man to marry. She’d be all grown up, considered an adult, and have sons and daughters of her own; two and two, like her and her siblings.

The older she grew, the more she learned what a wedding involved aside from celebration. The matchmaking process, bride and groom being from different alienages to bring in new blood, which meant marrying a stranger. The way orphans were married off, to use the dowry coming in to support the Orphanage. The tradition of marrying off the firstborn for a similar reason: to bring in money for the dowry of a younger sibling. Which meant she’d lose Jair, and maybe Naor as well, to some place she’d probably never get to visit. And her enthusiasm dimmed a little.

When her brothers were taken from her, one a couple of years after the other, and far too soon at that, it wasn’t by a match. Under the watchful eyes of the templars Jair left not for another alienage, but the Circle. Naor was taken by the Maker before the templars could get their hands on him.  
This was worse than what she’d imagined. Not only had Jair lost his freedom and family, and the chance of ever having one of his own. He’d diminished the chances of her and her baby sister as well.  
The more magic in one’s bloodline, the harder it became to find a match. No one wanted to raise a child only to lose it to the Circle.   
Naor’s powers had stayed a secret, mostly. Aside from her own parents, only Aunt Maeve knew. And she would not have said anything for the sake of her own children, especially since her eldest was in the Circle as well.

Once Varda turned nine, she showed signs of magic, too. Aunt Maeve became desperate to find a match for her own daughter before word could get out, though Elva was barely sixteen at the time.  
Her father responsible for the latest purge, her brother hanged for thievery, one of her siblings, and not one, but three of her cousins being mages – even if no one but them had been certain about Naor – Elva’s chances of finding a match were almost as bad as Sharai’s own.  
When the templars came for Varda, several years later, they hurt Sharai so bad for protesting, she had trouble recalling what had happened with any detail; unsure how much of the blanks had been filled in by imagination and expectation.   
She’d woken afterward to find they’d taken her sister and killed Mamae for good measure.  
Babae drank himself into a stupor and finally to death, leaving her to fend for herself.

Sharai dedicated herself to becoming a better healer than her mamae had ever been, so she could gain the respect of the community despite being damned to stay a child forever. Only a madman would pay a dowry for an orphan with three mage siblings.  
Unless some man went against tradition and ignored the whole matchmaking-process, she would never have a husband, never be an adult, never have children of her own. The last thought was the easiest to bear. Since moving into the orphanage, she had taken to caring for the younger children not simply to earn the roof over her head, but to fill the void in her life: the lack of her immediate family, and the loss of a future one.

It took years of hard work to expand her knowledge and resources, so she could establish a source of income that benefitted not only her, but the whole alienage.  
Some had snubbed her for being a child, but she had argued that she was likely to remain so, and earned the respect of her elders for what she did, despite what she was. Expertise in healing was too costly coming from the outside, and too rare on the inside to not make use of, no matter her age or status.  
So, she was a welcome guest at every table, many families taking turns inviting her to join their meal in thanks for services rendered or yet to come. Food was a little easier to spare for most families than coin, and Sharai could put the savings from being fed by others toward building her supplies.  
All in all, things had worked out well. Weddings however were no longer cause for celebration, but to get so stinking drunk she sometimes worried she might follow her father into an early grave.

When she helped embroider Nirai’s wedding dress, a task usually given to yet unmarried sisters and cousins, she felt old despite still being considered a child. Twenty-three, and still a maid, and like to die a maid. At least she had not fallen for any of the young men she knew, so she could save herself the heartache on top of the desperation. Unless...  
She plucked a hair from her head and threaded it through the needle. Sowing a hair into the bride’s dress was supposed to be good luck.  
Who knew, maybe she’d marry for love.

Nirai’s groom and Soris’ bride arrived earlier than expected.  
She helped the girl prepare, as was tradition. Before they were accepted into their new family, elves from another alienage often did not have – or know any of their – relatives in the new city. So, it had become customary for them to be housed at the orphanage until the ceremony, and for the orphans to help them prepare. A sensible measure, since most orphans were married off to other alienages, too. Even if it was not their own orphanage helping them prepare, those children could emphasize with having lost all family, and took hope from watching one of their own find a new one. Not her, though. She needed a bottle.

And she’d found one.  
Good stuff, too, strong, starting to work it’s – not magic, she hated magic, it had ruined her life!  
Working its way into her blood, making her slightly light headed.  
She had placed the bottle down to not be rat-arsed before the ceremony started. Because today, she was a bridesmaid, and not going to embarrass herself up on stage. There was time to get completely smashed after she’d done her duty.

But then the shem came, and one of them got quite literally smashed, when Shianni grabbed her bottle and shattered it over his head.   
Things went downhill from there. The lord, injured in body and pride, came back with his guards, threatening to abduct the whole bridal party.   
Sharai offered herself up, dejected, because her future was already lost, and she thought she could at least save the others.  
But Vaughan took them all, anyway.  
When he saw her eyes, not filled with fear, but a mix of bitterness and acquiescence, he no longer wanted her, and gave her to his guards instead.

They dragged her to the kennels to act out their deprived fantasies. One pissed on her to show his disregard before stripping her naked. The other drew his knife and brought it up close to her face.  
She’d struggled then, panic cutting through the numbing haze of drunkenness and despair. For a moment, she thought he’d cut off her ears, but it was only her hair he took.  
She felt too relieved to mourn the auburn curls falling onto the filthy floor, to fully register the pain and the blood from the scalp wound recoiling had earned her.  
Then they put her in a collar, on a leash. They came to regret that decision, once Nirai burst through the door, armoured and armed and bloody furious, followed by an armoured, armed and worried Soris.

One mabari, free of its kennel, charged at the smell of blood clinging to her cousins. But Nirai took it on and somehow managed not to get torn to shreds. While Soris engaged the other guard, who’d drawn already, Sharai looped her leash around the neck of the one who’d previously held, but now dropped it. He did not manage to fumble free his own weapon anymore. Digging her knee into his back and pulling hard as she could, she strangled him with the tool his own, sick mind had put in her hands.

Then she quickly got dressed again, armed herself with a crossbow, since she did not know how to use a blade, and accompanied the other two to save – no, rescue – Shianni, Nessa and Valora. They could put an end to Vaughan’s violence, but the harm had already been done.  
Sharai was grateful that she’d been neither killed nor, despite what people believed, raped. There were worse fates than remaining a maid. But there was a bitter aftertaste to that, and she felt guilty for mourning her future when Nola no longer had one.  
There would be no wedding for her. What small chance she’d still had, Vaughan had taken it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Wedding
> 
> I had fun doing some worldbuilding in the various "wedding" centered fics.  
> Like orphans being married off, so their dowry goes to and supports the orphanage.  
> I also figured that magic would be undesirable in the blood line to city elves, because you need your children to take care of you once you grow old and the Circle system takes them away if they develop magic (unless they manage to stay hidden as an apostate).  
> Sharai is related to my Nirai Tabris, because I figured all the bridesmaids at a City Elf Wedding would be the unmarried female relatives (sisters, cousins of various degrees)


	39. W 1d

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elva's life had never been fair. But it could have been worse.

Elva was only four, when her elder sister was taken to the Circle.  
Too young to understand what she had lost, beside Nia.  
Reputation. That was a concept she could not yet grasp.  
It could not be seen, like the smile dimpling Nia’s cheeks. Or heard, like the whispered tales and sweet songs that lulled her to sleep.  
It could not be touched, like a sister that cuddled you during bedtime and tickled you in the morning to wake you, until your belly ached from laughing.  
It left a taste, though, stale at first, and growing more and more bitter over the years, until her mouth was permanently pinched in disgust.

Reputation.  
She came to hate that word, that concept. Mostly, because her worth was coupled to it, and she had only some say in how she was regarded. Too little.  
Was it her fault, that Nia had magic? She herself didn’t. Why did it make her blood undesirable?  
Was it her fault, that Babae had killed a shem and caused a purge? No.   
That her brother Fintan had turned to stealing, gotten caught and hanged? No!   
Why did it make her character questionable, when she had done nothing wrong?

Was it Mamae’s fault, that Naor died from rat poison after eating her stew? Of course, it wasn’t!  
The poison had been in the stew, because it had been in the rats, because shem poisoned rats.  
That was all there was to it. Why else would her mamae have refused to touch rats afterwards?  
But that Adaia Tabris had twisted Aunt Jimena’s mind, turned her against Mamae, when the two of them needed friends more than ever.  
Nia gone, Morna gone, Babae gone, Fintan gone, and the rest of the alienage? Turning their backs on them, for things that were not their fault!

She despised that Adaia Tabris, and that daughter of hers. Troublemakers, the both of them. But was their reputation in shambles? No.  
They hid their crimes, the knives, the fighting and the stealing – they had to be stealing, they were too well off for respectable elves!  
Hid them well enough to provoke rumours, but not give evidence.

And here was Elva, on the brink of starvation, to scrape together enough money to bribe someone to take her. As the last living child, it would be up to her and her husband to take care of Mamae when she grew old. And that meant saving up for a dowry big enough to get some man – any man, apparently – to move to Denerim and marry a girl, who had a bad reputation despite having done nothing wrong whatsoever.  
A man older than her father had been, at the time he died.  
Older than he would be now, probably, she had not cared enough to ask.

She knew he was a widower, who had lost his wife and children to sickness the previous winter.  
Elva had always been worried about the prospect of her wedding night, about consummation. But she had found solace in the thought that they’d both be new to this, and discover it together.  
She would not be given even that small comfort.   
She’d have to count herself lucky to get married at all.

Everything was arranged, and her husband on his way to Denerim.  
But Elva just could not catch a break.  
Templars. In the alienage. Following rumours of an Apostate.  
Elva knew. She just knew, if her cousin Varda got dragged away, her betrothed would turn on his heel as soon as he arrived, and the match be damned!  
She had to do something!

The Surana boy was a danger, she told herself, the fire two days back had probably been his magic acting up. They’d gotten that fire under control, but it was midsummer and had not rained in days. He could have burned down the whole alienage. He still might.  
And with that hair, a dull brown before, turned snow white – well, it wasn’t exactly like he could hide what he was, anyway. But if someone brought up Varda...  
Before she knew it, Elva was on her feet, pointing.  
„It’s him!“

Next thing she knew, she was on the ground, trying to fight off Sharai without actually hurting her. Trying to push off the smaller girl so she could get back to her feet and get her face out of reach of those tiny, crazed fists.  
When she saw what happened to the other Surana boy... what he turned into – fire made flesh, she thought, though it had been the other way around... she rolled over on top of Sharai to get her to stop. She got to her knees, then feet, quick as she could and dragged the smaller girl up with her. Despite the hank of red hair Sharai had ripped free and still clutched between trembling fingers, Elva grabbed her by the hand and ran.  
They’d been somewhat close, once, before everything had gone wrong. And she wasn’t going to let herself or her cousin get killed by a monster, because the younger girl was too enraged to think.

She later learned that the templars had taken care of the abomination. But apparently that Tabris girl had been flinging stones at it, and for once, she was the one whose reputation suffered. Elva could not help but silently gloat.  
She’d managed to secure her wedding, but had to attend it a few days after with a split lip and a black eye. She had not dared to beg her mamae to reconsider. It would have been unwise to wait, probably. Every day could be the day Varda’s magic became public. But then, of course, it did not happen until years later. It was unfair.  
But when had Elva’s life ever been fair?

And then it was the turn of the Tabris girl to marry. Elva felt the jealousy twist her insides into writhing snakes, their venom dripping from her tongue.  
„So, I see you’ve got yourself a big, handsome hulk of a husband. Excuse me if I don’t congratulate you.“  
The bitch dared to roll her eyes at that.  
„What exactly is your problem?“ Tabris asked, though she did not sound like she truly cared.  
„You!“ Elva could not help it, could not help but smart at the injustice of it all, could not help the bitterness, that filled her to the brim, from spilling over.  
„Strutting around like you’re the Queen of Ferelden.“

It had not been enough for the bitch to get a handsome husband, oh no.  
She had to have a big celebration and a new dress, made special for the occasion. Even the most elaborate dress and makeup could not hide her inked skin and broken nose and abysmal ears, but it was not like the poor chap engaged to her could just say „no thanks“ once he saw what was in store for him.  
Looks did not matter, Elva had realized years ago, told herself years ago.  
On her own wedding day.   
During the wedding night.   
And every day since. She’d let herself go, because her husband had shown no interest either way.

It smarted, that this girl, with the face and temper of an ill-bred attack dog, should score such a man as Nelaros with her money and her lies. He looked good, he seemed nice, he was skilled and would earn well.  
It simply wasn’t fair!  
„Your father has the money to get you a great match. Meanwhile, what did I get? A fat, old man who smells like the docks and wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if he was sober.“  
„You act like that’s my fault, somehow.“

„Oh, you have your faults, alright. You think you’re better than me? Well you’re not. I may have got a poor match, but at least I have got some dignity. Wench.“ She all but spat out the last word, holding to that dignity instead of using the word that was truly on her mind.  
She no longer envied the Tabris girl, when Vaughan came and kidnapped the whole wedding party. At least she had escaped that kind of fate. That young Tabris had not, despite Adaia’s insistence on the importance of fighting, just showed that all the trouble you’d get into, if you were caught carrying a blade, was not worth it.

Elva considered to offer comfort to the bereft betrothed – Nelaros of course, not Soris.  
That one was cut from the same cloth as his cousin, even if the weave was weaker. Or so she’d thought.  
But then Soris not only made an attempt at a rescue mission, he actually succeeded. Sort of.  
They came back two people short, Nola and Nelaros.  
Poor Uncle Tormei, losing his only daughter.  
Maybe the weapons training Adaia had provided had not been so bad after all, if Soris had managed to outperform the much stronger Nelaros.

But no, those thoughts were dangerous territory.  
The supposed success was a spark just waiting to catch fire. Once it did, the whole alienage would burn. There had been a purge after one dead human dockworker last time. How much more severe would the punishment be for a dead noble? Unless they had been smart enough to spare him, but wouldn’t he have sent his men after them in that case? They could not have killed all those guards, could they?  
What had these idiots been thinking, that no one would notice several elves, covered in blood, slinking back to the alienage? Of course, the garrison came marching in, demanding the culprits turn themselves over.

Elva inched closer despite her sense of self-preservation telling her to get as far away as she could, hunker down somewhere she would be safe when the alienage went up in flames. But maybe the worst could yet be prevented. She was close enough to hear, close enough to make eye contact, and stared Tabris down indignantly.  
She’d chosen this, she’d chosen to spill shem blood, and now she kept silent as if this were no concern of hers. How dare she!  
As Elva opened her mouth to speak up, the girl blurted: „It was my doing.“

Elva narrowed her eyes, then gave a slight nod. Tabris had owned up to what she’d done, but she had left out the part Soris had played. Elva could understand wanting to protect a loved one, but really. No matter how good Tabris supposedly was with that blade, how could she expect the guards to believe she’d killed so many, all on her own?  
Elva lingered just long enough to make certain the guards were satisfied with this flimsy explanation, satisfied to avenge the Arl’s son on only one elf, not all of them.  
Then she withdrew, musing that while her own wedding day had certainly been a disappointment, at least it had not been an outright disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Wedding
> 
> I always wondered, why Elva was so bitter during Origins (other than a unfavorable match), and what drove her to rat out the Soris and/or the City Elf, if you did not own up to the bloodshed at the estate.  
> This is my take on her background and motivations.
> 
> While Elva herself did not do anything to deserve her bad reputation, I tried to hint that her mother Maeve was not entirely innocent. I figure that after losing her firstborn to the Circle, Maeve unintentionally triggered a downward spiral by trying to keep more magic in the bloodline from becoming public.  
> Maeve smothered Elva's younger sister, Morna, who showed magic at a very early age, and made it look like a natural cause.  
> Elva's father getting into the fistfight that caused the purge was a consequenve of Morna's death.  
> Fintan turning to stealing was a consequence of the father's death, and cause his death, too.  
> Maeve also poisoned the portion of rat stew she served Naor, and Fintan got sick after eating the rest of the bowl.  
> She refused to use rats afterward to have an alibi.  
> The rift between Maeve and Jimena did not occur immediately after Naor died from the rat poision, but when Maeve tried to pull the same trick on Varda, once her magic showed. That was when Jimena started to share Adaia's suspicion that the poison had been in the stew, not the rats.  
> Elva does not know (or does not want to know/believe) what her mother did. All she can see is how her own reputation suffered, when she had done no wrong. And how the Tabris girl gets a good match, when she is definitely doing things that are not allowed. So yeah... bitter.  
> I hope I did a character with little screen time some justice by expanding on her involvement and background a little.


	40. W 1e

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know that the info from Origins and the toolset tells us that Soris is not as brave as his cousin, the City Elf Character. But he had enough guts to come to the rescue of a female Tabris and the other girls.

„Babae said it was time to find me a husband.“   
Soris gaped at his cousin. „But... you’re just fourteen.“  
She’d be fifteen by the end of the year, and one could get married at that age by Fereldan custom. Alienage customs were different from those of shemlen, though, the wedding ceremony a rite of passage that made you an adult. So, while marrying that young was not unheard of, it was certainly unusual.  
How long did uncle Cyrion expect the search for a viable candidate, and the following negotiations with the groom's parents to last?

„I just got my face inked.“ Nirai shot back. „He probably thinks if he waits any longer I'll get up to something else, something worse. Something that makes it impossible to find me a match.“   
„Maybe“, Soris ventured, „he's just trying to treat you like an adult. You know, with the tattoo and all... don't the Dalish need to have their faces marked before they are allowed to bond? Maybe he thought...“   
„If he thought that, he'd let me choose for myself. Not set out to buy me as husband.“

„He's not... that's just how it works. You know that. If you were the one to leave the alienage, there'd be a dowry paid for you. Doesn't make it selling. We're not cattle.“   
„I know that!“ She flushed, apparently ashamed. „I know. It's just... it's gonna be a shady deal. It'll be all secrets and lies. No one would take me if he outright told them the truth. How am I supposed to build a life upon a lie?“   
He didn't know what to say to that.

„Uncle Tormei don't want me near anymore, and neither do Aunt Elea and Uncle Anrai. Sharai doesn't approve. Even Babae... if my own family can't accept me the way I am, how is a complete stranger supposed to?“ Nirai looked wretched. Devastated. And… decided. Her face had gotten that furrow between her brows, that told him she’d made up her mind about something.  
„I don’t want a wedding that turns into a trap for either me, or him, or both of us. I’d rather have no wedding at all.“

He should have known she was serious, even if she did not mention it again afterwards. He knew how stubborn she could he. He had not believed, however, that she would try to sabotage her own wedding. Not until years later, when the wedding day had actually arrived, and he saw her holding up a silver coin, trying to pay Nelaros to not go through with it. She’d reiterated her belief, that she could not build a future upon a lie and would rather remain unwed than become unhappy.

Weirdly enough, that seemed to have been the right thing to do and say to secure Nelaros‘ devotion to her. He promised to make her happy, and for a short amount of time, she actually was.  
She deserved all the happiness in the world, not whatever Vaughan held in store for her. None of the girls that had been taken deserved this, but Soris could not help but worry more for his cousins than his own bride. It was not Valora’s fault, that she had not yet captured his heart, while Nirai and Shianni, and to a lesser degree Nola, Nessa and Sharai, were engraved in it, their names carved deeper with each passing year.

He knew only one thing: if he wanted a chance at happiness, with or without Valora… if he wanted to be able to ever look himself in the eye again, he had to do something. Those girls were his family, and he had to fight for them. Soris was not sure if he’d have been brave enough to do so on his own, and glad he did not have to find out.  
Whether out of devotion to Nirai, or some moral obligation, Nelaros had joined him on the rescue mission. Even with the wedding interrupted, Nelaros held up his side of that unspoken vow to Nirai.  
In good times and bad. Till death do us part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> wedding


	41. W 1f

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Nirai asked Teagan if he had family, it was more to find out what would motivate Teagan to defend the village, if he had family there, since she has not made the best experience with nobility before. He might have gotten the wrong idea.

„Aside from the Arl, do you have any family yourself?“  
„Oh... you mean, am I married?“  
That question had caught him completely off guard. She’d been so focused before, talking only tactics.  
Now that all their plans had been set in motion, and there was nothing left to do but wait for nightfall, her mind might simply search for some way to occupy it. Of everything she could have asked though, this was her choice?

Teagan studied her expression, the set jaw, the intense gaze. Her face was lovely, despite the tattoo. Bold, black lines, framing it from her strong brows down to her full lips.  
And he could not help but wonder who would be her choice. He knew just enough to have an inkling of arranged marriages not being unheard of among elves, but he doubted this woman would let anyone take her choice away.  
Alistair was the senior Warden, yet she did not submit to his authority. The way she had ordered the others around, an alluring mixture of both confidence and competence, spoke volumes.

Her cussing about the undead had sent heat up into his cheeks and down into his belly, and he prayed to the Maker he had not actually blushed like some shy maiden at the phrase „fucking“ falling so casually from that gorgeous mouth. Passionate, and compassionate, and attractive, and… he should not be thinking these things, especially under the current circumstances.  
„I... no. No, I've never had the pleasure. If I did, I'd be lucky to find a woman as lovely as yourself.“  
He’d just admired the way she carried herself, so proud and poised. But the compliment seemed to have hit a nerve. Maybe, this time, he was the one to have caught her off guard.

Her eyes had flitted downward and she raised her hands in an almost placating gesture.  
„You flatter me.“ Even lowered, her voice still had that rich timbre that set his bones singing like a struck tuning fork.  
„If I may be so bold, what of you, my lady? Are you married?“  
She shook her head, the look in her eyes a mixture of longing and melancholy.  
„No. No, I’m not.“  
„I find that hard to believe. Surely, that is a crime somewhere.“

Her shoulders tensed, and he wondered if he had taken a misstep, somehow. Were Wardens even allowed to marry? He wished he knew.  
She straightened, making the most of her already impressive height, bringing them almost eye to eye as she met his gaze once more.  
Teagan was relieved to see the sly smile stealing onto her lips, making her look almost impish, and, if possible, even more attractive.  
„You have no idea.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Wedding
> 
> I know the dialogue is meant to be flirtateous. For Nirai, I twisted it a bit, because she would not flirt with someone just to gain an advantage, it makes her too uncomfortable. But the line "Surely, that is a crime somewhere" from this dialogue was too good to let it pass.  
> Must seem ironic to Nirai, given what happened on her wedding day.


	42. W 1g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai does not take well to being questioned about certain topics

Morrigan cocked her head, wondering if she had misjudged the Warden. First, Nirai had slapped Teagan, then practically folded immediately after. „I did not take you for one so easily swayed.“

Nirai frowned. „What are you on about?“

Morrigan smiled slyly. By now she had realized that the elf did not like to betray weakness of any kind. Or what she perceived as weakness. No matter if it were physical, emotional, or regarding her decisions. She had a stubborn streak, this one, and having it questioned did not sit well with her.

„You backed down the moment he gave you that ring.“ Morrigan had observed how the elf acted around Alistair, how she had slightly recoiled when her fellow Warden dared suggest she’d attempted to flirt with him. It would be hard to convince Alistair, with his apparent dislike of apostates in general and Morrigan in particular, to take part in the ritual when the time came. She would have to go through Nirai to get to him. So Morrigan added, teasingly: „A gesture of a certain significance between a man and woman, as I understand.“

One could learn a lot from riling people up a little – not too much, mind you. She did not want to get on the elf‘s bad side, for she would need her later. Just enough to draw her from her shell a bit, so she could figure out how her mind worked.

„Meaning he proposed?“ Nirai huffed. „Don’t be ridiculous.“

Morrigan shrugged, the motion causing the cowl she’d sown from the fabric stripped from a dead templar to slide off and reveal her raven hair. It had taken painstakingly long to undo all the tiny embroidered stars and the chantry sunburst, to remove the templar connotations from the cloth. But the contrast of the rich purple against her skin was worth it.

„You were talking about marriage before.“

„You were?“ Alistair piped in, sounding almost concerned. Interesting.

Not a huff this time, but an outright snort. „He was,“ Nirai deflected.

Morrigan watched the two of them closely. Alistair‘s gaze fixed upon the elf‘s hand, as she pushed open the door to the mill with her palm flat against the withered wood. More precisely, upon her ringfinger and the delicate, golden band encircling it.

„So, uhm…“ he hedged. „Are you…?“

„Going to marry Teagan?“ she snorted once more, stomping into the Mill and getting swallowed by shadows. „Not bloody likely,“ her voice came from inside.

Alistair fidgeted, then followed.

„Just married,“ Morrigan heard him suggest.

„Did I miss something?“ The elf snapped. Morrigan’s eyes were still adjusting to the half-dark, after stepping inside herself. But she heard the other woman moving around, kicking up straw and ranting, „Aside from Sten acting father of the bride, you standing in as best man, Leliana as my bridesmaid, Shale as ringbearer and Morrigan as flower girl? Weddings usually involve a priest, you’d think someone brought up by the Chantry would know that.“

„It’s the ears, isn’t it? That qualified Sten for the job? But the Witch of the Wilds as flower girl? You’d be lucky to get poison ivy from her. Or some stinking swamp mushroom,“ Alistair joked, trying to deter the elf from her rant and diffuse her anger, but he was too late for that.

„It’s ridiculous!“ Nirai agreed, waving her hand in Morrigan‘s direction absentmindedly. She crouched down, apparently having stumbled over the secret trap door at last, and unlocking it. „No offense to you, Morrigan. I’m sure you could conjure up some pretty, nonetheless deadly, flowers. It’s the general idea, of me being married to...“

„Someone!“ Alistair cut in quickly. „Not Teagan, just… someone,“ he insisted, and if Morrigan would have believed in any god, she might have silently prayed for him to shut up. If she wanted to use the elf to get to him, she needed the two of them to be on speaking terms. „Some guy. Man. Whatever.“

„So happy to hear I apparently qualify for a whatever ever after. Now shut up and help me get open that damn door. I think it is rusted shut.“

Together they pulled, and Alistair stumbled backwards, almost landing on his backside, when it gave way. Only Sten’s stoic intervention prevented it.

„Fucking finally,“ Nirai huffed. She tested the first few rungs of the ladder with one foot before she started climbing down.

„Soooo…“ Alistair began again. The man truly was a fool.

„No!“ the elf, already halfway down the shaft, snapped. Her voice echoed in the narrow confinement like the crack of a whip. Her right hand came up, reaching to just above ground level. One finger pointing vaguely, but accusatory, in Alistair’s direction. „And while we’re at it, any other important topics to discuss? Bad hair days? Varieties of cheese? The latest Fereldan fashion? No? No more of that, then! Or I swear, on Andraste’s pyre, you won’t make it to your own wedding night.“ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Wedding
> 
> I figured, Nirai was sentimental enough to wear the ring at first. She takes it off later, after Alistair pesters her about the topic a second time. He does not ask about it again, until they meet Shianni in the Alienage and she mentions the wedding in passing.


	43. W 1g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to bring up the topic once more.

„So…“ Alistair knew it probably was a bad idea to bring this up again. But this was simply too important to let go. „You have that ring. But... you're not married.“

„That again?“ she groaned. „No. I'm not married.“

„Engaged?“ he prompted. She had not mentioned anyone waiting for her. Might be nice, though, if a Blight didn't usually take decades to handle. Blight and Void, they might experience the Calling before this was through, and even if they didn't... who would wait that long?

„No!“

He paused for a moment, taken aback by her raised voice. A sore subject, apparently. Slighted, maybe? But why keep the ring, then, if she did not want to be reminded. She could not actually be… „Widowed?“ The idea that she might have been forced to leave a kid behind when getting conscripted horrified him.

„No!“ She pinched the bridge of her nose. This time, her voice didn’t just rise, it did so in a steady crescendo, „No, NO, **NO**!“ She breathed deeply. „I don't think there's a word for what I am, so stop asking.“

„You don't have to limit yourself to just one, you know.“

„And you don't get to pester me about whether or not I'm attached to some man in the present, past or future. You want to know how I came by that ring? I took it off a corpse.“

Alistair recoiled slightly, not just because of the accusing finger once more jabbing straight toward his face.

Another voice piped in, completely calm, „I think the word you're looking for is scavenger."

She muttered dryly, „Thanks, Sten.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the word inspiring this fic was:  
> Wedding
> 
> technically, she did not take the ring off of Nelaros' corpse, it fell from the wedding clothes her father was trying to put away when she returned and Nelaros did not. It rolled right between her feet. Becoming emotional, she tried it on, and could not easily get it off afterward. She takes it off after this conversation, though, so Alistair will stop bothering her.


	44. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not sure how detailed the slaver's papers were, but I figured they might have documented on which ships they smuggled the slaves from Denerim to Tevinter.

Nirai frowned at the parchment she held.  
„What’s a Xebec?“ She muttered, unware she’d spoken aloud until Alistair answered: „A ship.“  
„What?“ She looked up, still frowning.  
„It’s a kind of ship. Merchant vessel, small, three-masted.“  
„How do you know?“  
„I’ve read a pirate novel or two.“ He admitted.

Small, he’d said. How small could a three-master actually be? There’d be plenty of storage room for smuggling slaves.  
„So, these lists are ship types and names.“  
She thumbed through the slaver’s papers, one name in particular catching her eye.  
Siren’s Call. That sounded familiar, somehow. Why would that sound familiar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know what kind of ship the Siren Call was, so I phrased it in a way that leaves it ambiguous.
> 
> I think Nirai might have learned a few dueling tricks from Isabela, and wondered how she would react if she found out that Isabela was involved in the slave trade.


	45. Y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nirai always tries to come off tougher than she is. She can accept Zevran sabotaging that tough exterior, as long as it is just the two of them.

removed temporarily for rewrite


	46. Z

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I alway felt that the way Zathrian dealt with the humans he wanted to take revenge on was... a little stupid. It is one thing to want to draw out their suffering, but to cause more suffering for his own people could not have been his intention.

„You think I never encountered humans who thought they could rape and murder without consequence? I made sure they couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. You turned them into something even more dangerous, that threatens your entire clan!“  
 _You turned those nobles into a threat to the Alienage, too. A precedent, and a purge._

Was she any different from Zathrian?  
She had made those humans suffer for what they’d done to her loved ones, same as him.  
Magical curse or mere consequence, same outcome.  
It had come back to bite them in the ass. Her only metaphorically, but him quite literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word inspiring this fic was:  
> Zathrian
> 
> I figure, that Nirai, magic or no, would have just killed those humans. She wonders however, if there is that much difference between her and Zathrian, if you break the situation down to the essentials.


End file.
